Medlar and SorbApple
by Dana Woods
Summary: Sequel to "Red Macula". 24 hours of Faith on a day when a lot threatens to happen, and a lot does. Just not what Faith expects. 2nd Person Tense.


"Medlar and Sorb-Apple" By Dana Woods © 2003  
  
Disclaimer: The characters/concepts of BtVS belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and everyone else who makes money from the show. The rest is mine.  
  
WARNING: THIS IS IN SECOND PERSON PRESENT TENSE. IT'S VERY FREE FLOWING. NOT REALLY STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS, BUT DEFINITELY RELAXED.  
  
Author's Note: This is the third in the "After the Opera" series. First is Elysium, and second is Red Macula. You need to read the previous two stories for this to make sense. Seriously. It assumes knowledge of both stories. This takes place two months after Elysium, which would be in February of season seven of Buffy.  
  
Additional note: This is an R rated version of the story. There is an NC17 version (only different in one scene) at my site.  
  


* * *

  
Prologue 5:29M  
  
This isn't yours. None of it is yours, and yet here you are. Living it, holding it, protecting it, fighting it, guarding it.  
  
It wasn't supposed to be your destiny at all, but boys with chocolate brown eyes don't think much when faced with the sight of their divinity lying dead at their feet, and loony vampires don't think *at all* when they slice razor sharp nails into café au lait skin  
  
So it became your destiny but not really. There was your other half, and she was your better half, and you were a paragon of nothing while she was the ideal of everything. You let her take the brunt of it, even became a cross for her to bear before you came to your senses and acknowledged that ancient power inside of you that exists for a single purpose. And that purpose isn't helping demons or wickedly evil law firms who need a hired gun.  
  
The worst is that it never should have come to this, come to just you. Buffy died and even you can admit that it's not really fair.  
  
Not that you want to be dead--fuck no--but when you think about the life Buffy lived, of the mistakes she made that were nothing in comparison to the doozies you made, you know that who or whatever makes the big decisions is just fucked up. You've weighed your life against hers hundreds of times since you blew into town like the Queen Shit of Slaying, and you always came up damn short.  
  
She should be alive. No matter what. She should be working her way towards a nice retirement and a cozy little life with Angel--though how they could have managed that is something you can never really figure out when you think about the way things should be. The details are unimportant though. Things are wrong and you know it.  
  


* * *

  
5:30 PM - 6:30 PM  
  
You wake up with these angsty thoughts in mind, just like you do everyday. It's gotten easier to push them aside, to pretend they don't exist, but you know you will always wake up to them. Just like you know you'll always hate them. As a general rule, you try not to do angsty. Pissy, bitchy, evilly-- sure. But not angsty. There are other, better-qualified people to do that. CoughAngelCough.  
  
The energized feeling you notice before you even open your eyes is how you know it's Tuesday. For you, there are only five days in a week. Have been since you were in school. Sundays don't count, because you've always thought they were kind of non-days. Passing by much too quickly and springing the dreaded Monday on you before you were ready. Mondays are non- days as well, twenty-four hours in which you trudge along, cranky and tired, counting the minutes until it ends.  
  
But Tuesdays are the shit, really. All sorts of hyperactivity come along with Tuesdays and it's your favorite day. This has proven to be true despite the fact that your schedule has long since made the day of the week unimportant.  
  
You shove the sheet off and blink up at the ceiling, straining to hear if there are any sounds in the apartment that signal Tara is home. A clanking metal noise. Pots, probably. That'd be Tara, most likely cooking something for you to gulp down as soon as you make your way to the kitchen.  
  
Tara rocks. You decided this long ago, but it bears repeating, even if it is only to yourself as you jump out of bed and stretch your arms above your head. Tara rocks. It really can't be acknowledged enough. Without her, you'd live on junk food and buy new clothes to replace the ones that you've shrunk--despite years of doing laundry for yourself, you haven't mastered what water temperatures are best for what clothes.  
  
Takeout and new clothes aren't horrible, sure, but they're not as nice as home cooked meals and clothes that aren't static-ridden but also don't smell of dryer sheets. How Tara manages this is a mystery, and unlike most other mysteries in your life, it doesn't need to be solved so you let it be.  
  
That sounds selfish, the food and laundry, and it is, but they're not the only reason you like having her around. It's just...nice to have someone in your life, in your home--and, whoah, you have a *home*, not just a place to crash; shit, that still stuns you--who actually gives a damn. About the Slaying, about your well being, about everything that has to do with you.  
  
And that also sounds selfish, and that also is, but there's still more to it. You like having someone in your home that you give a damn about. Really give a damn about. You even don't mind when Tara gives you the big-eyed look that makes you feel like crap for doing something you shouldn't have. Never feels likes she's judging you, just saying that she thinks you're better than that. Which, let's face it, is pretty fucking cool.  
  
You head to the bathroom, pausing in the hallway to yell down to Tara, "Hey, I'm up and hitting the shower."  
  
There's a muffled response that you interpret as "Okay" and then you're in the bathroom, switching on the radio you keep on the counter. For most times of the day, your preferred music of choice is Techno and Industrial. You can walk, fight, run, and fuck to the beats. Perfect all around music. But for the shower, you go with rock. Hard rock that's all drums and guitars and shouting men whose voices are going to be shot in ten years because they've never been trained in how to sing. It kicks your head into gear, as opposed to the Techno, which just makes you feel like dancing, and you won't ever again dance to Techno in the shower.  
  
Not since The Incident, where you slipped, knocked yourself out, and came to a while later to find the shower turned off, several towels draped over your nakedness, and Tara in the living room watching a Marilyn Manson video on television with something akin to morbid fascination.  
  
The shower is tepid today. On the rough days, when things are stretched thin and worry and uncertainty are kept carefully behind your eyes, it's cold. A nice jolt that makes you grit your teeth and keep your movements precise and efficient. On really good days, when things have come together and you're relieved, you don't even use the cold tap. Hot all the way, baby.  
  
The closest thing you come to a bath is when you sit in the tub, strategically positioned so that the shower spray will hit whatever bruises need to be battered away.  
  
Hooked over the shower nozzle is an enamel-coated wire rack that holds half a dozen body washes. When you asked Tara about them, she said that she never knows what kind of mood she'll be in on a particular day, and that smelling like raspberries when she's bloated and cramping doesn't work for her. You responded with one of those looks that display scorn and indulgence, and you have yet to stray from your bar of Ivory Soap.  
  
There's a knife in the rack, as well. One made for underwater use by SEALS, or something like that. But it doesn't rust and that's all you care about. Maybe you're a bit paranoid. You don't think it's an issue. It's just that you lived on your own for so long, in places that really weren't safe. Got to be a habit that was only reinforced by your fun-filled time in the Penitentiary. What you wouldn't have given for that knife a few times while you were paying for your crime.  
  
When Tara moved in, you thought she would say something about it. At the time you didn't know her well enough to realize that she's not big on asking questions. Sometimes it's because she's just waiting for you to bring it up. Other times it's because she already knows the answer and doesn't think it's necessary to talk about it. Spike was like that, too, when you lived with him, but the difference is that Spike could never resist making sarcastic comments.  
  
But back then, you didn't know all this, and so you were surprised one evening when you stepped into the old fashioned claw footed tub and found the knife in the brand spanking new rack, fitted with a sheath that hooks neatly onto an s-shaped curvature on the bottom rung. You kept waiting for her to bring it up, but to this day she never has. Probably never will.  
  
You're not one for drawn out showers. In less than ten minutes, you're in and out, hair washed and conditioned, or tamed by quick strokes of a razor if it's not on your head, and your skin squeaky clean. There are soft, fluffy black towels in the bathroom, some large enough to wrap around your body twice. You don't wrap yourself. One of the smaller ones gets twisted around your long hair and piled on top of your head. A large one is used to dry yourself off and then tossed over the shower curtain rod.  
  
The curtain used to be some kind of striped deal when Giles lived here, but you replaced it with a clear one so that your view wasn't blocked. After all, what good is the knife if you get caught by surprise?  
  
But neither you nor Spike were big on the cleaning, and Tara replaced the clear curtain with something a little bit more opaque when she noticed the mildew collecting at the bottom of it. Now when you're in the shower, things are visible but distorted. It was your first lesson in compromise, as you secretly think she got the opaque one, rather than another clear one, because she was nervous about someone accidentally walking in and getting more than an eyeful of her in the shower.  
  
Naked and sporting a towel turban, you turn up the volume on the stereo and snag a large black zippered bag from the top of the toilet tank. It holds your make-up, and you are generally surprised whenever someone expresses *their* surprise at the amount of cosmetics you own. Yeah, all right, you're not typically *girly*, but you are female and you do wear make-up.  
  
There are three different types of black eyeliner in the bag. Today should be pretty routine, so you choose a simple kohl pencil and go to work outlining your eyes.  
  
You also have a liquid kind, that you apply with a thin little brush, and which dries to your lids like liquid latex. It's strictly for heavy flow days when your eyeliner needs to stand up to a lot of stress, sweat and eye rubbing. The other liner is powdered, and you're meant to wet the applicator with water to apply it, but you generally just spit on it and then swipe it across the packed powder. That's for low-key days, when you're not patrolling for one reason or another, just lounging around the house. The shit melts off like you wouldn't believe it.  
  
You're a one-mascara type of woman. Thickening, extending, waterproof stuff in a green tube with a wand that's supposed to curl the lashes but, thankfully, doesn't. Blush also ears monogamy; there is a single container with three different shades of rust colored blushes, and that is all. You play the field when it comes to lipstick and eye shadow, though. They take up most of the bag, and the shades vary from really dark to not so dark.  
  
Not a single item in the bag is pink. You are more than a little proud of this fact.  
  
Rummaging through the contents, you pull out some not so dark shades and slather them where they belong, then make the international "concave cheeks, open mouth" face that is necessary to apply mascara. You pause in the middle of dipping the wand back into the tube and stare at your reflection.  
  
You look like Cher with your face like that.  
  
Fuck. Concentrating, you shift your features into a position that doesn't make you resemble some corny, surgically-enhanced, fifty-year-old female- impersonator-favorite, and bring the wand back to your lashes. However, you fail to successfully get the mascara on without reverting to Cher-face and while you are disappointed, you think that eventually you shall overcome the curse. But even if you don't, you're down with boy toys and Cher's known for them. A silver lining.  
  
Everything gets crammed back into the bag, and you're reaching for the blow dryer before you realize that you didn't put the bag back on the toilet tank. You don't really care, but you know that the next time Tara comes into the bathroom she'll automatically put the bag where it belongs, and it's kind of shitty to make her clean up after you, so you do it yourself.  
  
There is mousse, a big round brush and a blow dryer involved in the first step of your hair care. After that, you let it settle down while you lotion yourself up from head to toe. Ivory gets you clean, but it dries your skin out. The stuff you use is scent free, not only because you don't do scented stuff, but because you actually can't. Gives you hives.  
  
Then it's back to the hair, this time with a curling iron and hair spray. When it's styled such that you look like you just got up and ran your fingers through it, you take a moment to double check yourself in the mirror.  
  
You will acknowledge to yourself, if no one else, that the hair and makeup are crafted to give you a very specific look. Tough. Street Smart. No One's Bitch. Maybe it's something of a mask, but it's a mask that hinges on your eyes. With just a thought you can lower or lift a curtain of Attitude. The rest just compliments it.  
  
But you think you're paying for the ease with which you can push aside the thoughts in your head when you just wake up. Because, in the past? You used to have to try really hard to raise that curtain. Hell, it was constantly lowered unless you chose to lift it. Nowadays you have to practice lowering it. And before you leave the apartment you have to take a deep breath and *focus* because you will damn well not leave without that curtain drawn. End of story.  
  
Satisfied that you can still project the Tough Bitch aura you prefer to don, you collect your sleeping clothes and stroll back to your room, buck- naked. Tara knows you do this, so she always stays downstairs until she hears your bedroom door close.  
  
It's a little harsh to call her a prude, but you suspect that might be the case. Until you know for sure, you settle on reserved. And considerate. Because she's a lesbian, and you're female and straight, and maybe she just doesn't want to make you feel uncomfortable.  
  
When it comes to clothes, you're as non-girly as you appear. So once in your room, you randomly grab a shirt and pants and thrown them on. Most of your stuff coordinates with everything else, so it requires little thought. You wind up with a tight blue t-shirt and black jeans. Not very inspired but completely functional, and like every outfit you own it just emphasizes the fact that you are female.  
  
You don't bother with shoes because you're going to be doing a round of patrols soon and for that you wear your boots, which you keep downstairs. On your way out of the room, you stop by the table next to your bed. There's a little desktop calendar on it, a gift from Tara. It's a Word of the Day type deal. You rolled your eyes when she gave it to you, made some kind of flippant comment, and she just smiled and went back to whatever she was doing.  
  
But the truth is that you read the words everyday, and try to use them in conversation. Because you left high school well before graduation, and you're pretty much surrounded by people who are smart enough to use SAT words like they're not SAT words. Ripping off yesterday's page, you read today's word.  
  
Patina: 1. A thin greenish layer, usually basic copper sulfate, that forms on copper or copper alloys, such as bronze, as a result of corrosion. 2. The sheen on any surface, produced by age and use.  
  
This is a word you don't think you've ever even heard, so you reach under your bed and pull out a small dictionary. You've tried to memorize the pronunciation key, but you gave up after the third attempt. So now you just match symbols to explanations and then test out saying the word.  
  
"PA-teen-uh." That doesn't sound right. You squint at the symbols and switch the emphasis. "Pa-TEEN-uh. Patina."  
  
It sounds strange, but you like it. Though you doubt you'll get much use out of it. Yesterday's word was equipoise, and you were able to shock the shit out of Olson when you used it during your weekly Monday training session. You don't think an opportunity will arise today where patina will be appropriate. Oh well. Can't win them all. You leave your room, mentally repeating "pa-TEEN-uh" because it's just wicked cool.  
  
In the hallway, you smell something Italian wafting up from the kitchen, and your stomach rumbles as you jog down the steps.  
  
You notice Spike when you're halfway down the steps. You slow your descent and frown, wondering why he's here. Since the soul, he's not much for unannounced visits. You're not really sure why getting a soul would make him anal about calling ahead, but it has. The only times he doesn't call is on the nights when Tara is working at the Magic Box, because he has a standing date to walk her home after closing.  
  
You're perfectly capable of walking her home, but he always insists on doing it. You'd like to say you're not really sure about why he does that, either, but you can't. There's something between Spike and Tara that you aren't a part of, something that you can't touch, and that you think you'll never understand. Even if one of them were to try to explain it. Which they won't, despite the numerous times you've asked.  
  
Sure, you know the general reason. They've been through a lot together. That answer still doesn't satisfy you. You've been through a lot with Spike and Tara themselves, and even more with Angel. But you don't have a relationship with any of them that's like the one between Spike and Tara. It would make more sense, you think, if the two were dating or even screwing. That is so not the case, though. Tara's more than a little gay and you've never seen one shred if evidence that suggests Spike harbors any kind of sexual attraction to her whatsoever.  
  
They tell you, each in their own way, that they won't explain it because they can't. You don't believe this. Spike is so fucking articulate it's not funny. And Tara...well, you once thought that Tara was something of a flake. When you first met her, in Buffy's body--and, oh, hell, will you never stop shuddering in disgust when you remember that little stunt of yours--she was all stuttering and stammering. When you were sprung from jail, she was all crazy talking and creepy vibes. When she came back to do that ritual, though, the stutter was all but gone and there was nothing crazy or creepy about her, just something really sad.  
  
That's when you began to get it. That Tara isn't stupid or dense or blind or anything like that. She's just quiet and shy. If she really wanted to, she could explain the Spike situation. Not as articulately as Spike, but still clearly.  
  
You think you have a damn good relationship with Tara overall. Best one in your life, if you want to be honest. And you and Spike got along, understood each other damn well, even before the soul. With it, you're actually friends.  
  
But there are times when you see the two of them together, all knowing eyes and correct interpretations of non-committal sounds, and you get jealous. Not the kind of jealous that you once were of Buffy, with her good life, good friends, good family, (mostly) good boyfriend and good Watcher. No, this isn't something that makes you want to sink deep into the Bad Girl persona and lose yourself.  
  
It's just something that stings.  
  
Spike is sprawled on the sofa, his booted feet up on the coffee table. Tara is sitting next to him, one ankle tucked under a thigh, turned slightly to face him.  
  
"So when are you going to do it?" Spike is asking Tara. She shrugs uncomfortably and grimaces. "Better sooner than later, and you know it."  
  
"Yeah, I know," she sighs. "But she's going to be hurt."  
  
Wait, who's going to be hurt? Only one way to find out. "Hey," you call out, finally making your way down the last few steps.  
  
Spike glances at you and nods; Tara smiles. "Hey yourself," she replies. "There's saucy foodstuffs in the kitchen. Baked ziti."  
  
She makes as if to stand and you point a finger at her. "Sit your ass down," you order her. "I'll get some for both of us. Or all three?" you add, raising a brow at Spike.  
  
He, in turn, looks at Tara, who says, "No garlic."  
  
"Three," he tells you.  
  
See, that's what you're talking about right there. Reading looks and hearing unspoken questions.  
  
You go into the kitchen and see the pan of ziti on the counter, cooling. "So who's going to get hurt?" you ask as you take out some plates and find a large spoon.  
  
"Tracey," Spike answers.  
  
You turn around and look at Tara through the opening between the rooms. Tara's been dating Tracey for about eight weeks, and you can't stand her. She's totally domineering and has been blatantly trying to walk all over Tara and control her. It was a nasty sign and you've spent the last seven weeks keeping a careful watch over the relationship.  
  
"You're dumping Bossy?" you ask hopefully, spoon halfway into the noodles, cheese and sauce.  
  
"Yeah," Tara says miserably. "And don't call her that."  
  
Spike snorts. "Call her Obsessed Stalker. It's more fitting." Tara glares at him and he purses his lips. "I'm telling you, she was following us last night," he insists peevishly. He points at his eyes, wiggling his fingers a bit. "I could feel her beady little peepers." He shudders a little dramatically. "Gave me the creeps."  
  
Tara rolls her eyes in blatant disbelief, and you turn back to dishing out the ziti, but you file that little detail away. Yeah, Spike likes to be melodramatic at times, but more often than not, there's truth to what he says. Maybe you'll take a look in Tara's address book and find out where Tracey lives, just so you can make sure she's not prowling around after Tara when she should be tucked away in bed.  
  
Another thought occurs to you, and you shake a serving of ziti off the spoon with more force than necessary. If Tracey's following Tara while they're dating, then there's a chance she might do more after the breakup. You'll need to make sure Tara's not easily accessible.  
  
Spike catches your eye for a long moment and you get what he's trying to tell you. Tracey most definitely was following him and Tara, and he plans on doing exactly what you plan on doing. You'll need to coordinate with him, and you won't have to pry into Tara's address book because Spike already has. You nod, just once, and very quickly, and he returns it before you both look away.  
  
You make quick work of the rest of the serving, and take a couple of forks out of the utensil drawer before bringing all three dishes into the living room. This involves balancing one of them on your forearm, but you've got Slayer prowess working in your favor and gravity doesn't stand a chance. Tara smiles widely as she relieves you of a plate, passes it to Spike, then takes one for herself.  
  
"So what brings you by?" you ask Spike as you plop onto the loveseat and dig into the food. Truth is, you know why he's here now that you've been clued in about Tracey's stalking. Souled Spike doesn't play fast and loose with people's safety. Actually, he's pretty obsessed about it. But the reason you've asked is so that you have the opportunity to follow it up with, "Did I miss the call? I didn't hear the phone ring, but I guess it must have since you're here. "  
  
"Sod off," Spike grumbles back and you grin. Soul or no soul, he hates being teased. "I don't call every time I come by."  
  
"Sure you don't," you say patronizingly around a mouthful of food. You swallow and look at Tara. "What else did I miss while I was sleeping?"  
  
This time is generally spent recapping Tara's day, which is a lot more interesting than it sounds. Some pretty strange people go to the Magic Box and there can be some pretty funny stories on the days she works. On the two days a week she has class, the conversation is a bit different. You sometimes feel like you're getting the same education Tara is, because she practically recites entire lectures to you, and she never dumbs it down or skips parts because she thinks it's over your head. Some days, you really wish she would because it takes effort for your eyes not to glaze over when she starts talking philosophy to you.  
  
"Josh and I decided it's time for a movie night," Tara says, smiling in a way that brightens her eyes. "He and Olson are coming after your first patrol."  
  
You are ambivalent about these movie nights you all have once in a while. You know Buffy and the others had them, and it makes you feel...weird to have them. As if you're trying to be like her and them. It's a little too Single White Female-ish for your taste. But at the same time, movie nights are usually pretty fun.  
  
"Yay," you drawl, finishing your ziti. "That crap we watched last time made me want to stick my head in the frigging oven."  
  
"Yeah, it was--"  
  
"Two hours of whining topped with slow moving plot and sappy writing?" Spike supplies helpfully.  
  
"--depressing," Tara finishes, ignoring him. "And Faith's in charge of the movies, this time." Spike and you both hide a grin. "I was kind of hoping for something funny," Tara goes on to say, her voice sweet.  
  
The idea of renting some gory, bloody, slasher flick that you and Spike would get a kick out of is shot dead then. You sigh and get to your feet to go for more food. Spike comes with you, rinsing his dish off and setting it in the sink to be loaded in the dishwasher later. He looks resigned. Both of you are too much the suckers where Tara's concerned.  
  
"If you want to hang after the comedy, I can rent a couple of other movies, too," you suggest.  
  
He stares at you for a long moment and you find yourself frowning defensively. This intense staring that makes you feel like he's trying to peel layers of you off is a new habit of his. You can never figure out what's going on in his head when he does it, but you get the feeling that you're missing something important every time.  
  
"Yeah, all right," he agrees finally, turning away to walk back into the living room.  
  
Not for the first time, you wish Spike was still wont to talk your ear off. (Wont was last Wednesday's word and you've taken to using it all the time because it turns your mind upside down that it's spelled like won't without the apostrophe but is actually pronounced like want; you don't like having your head turned upside down, so you will overuse this word until the sensation goes away and you can claim victory.) Nowadays, what Spike's thinking is a guessing game that you only rarely come out on top of. And you don't feel comfortable asking him because he seems so...private now and you don't think your questions would be welcome.  
  
You have been known to go to Tara about Spike on occasion. It's not something you advertise, and it's not something you particularly like doing. It also isn't always as helpful as you want it to be. When you asked her how Spike got his soul, she deferred you to him. When you asked her about his feelings for Buffy, the same thing happened. The only thing she has answered, in fact, is why he decided to stay in Sunnydale.  
  
"Well, first? After the others died?" she said slowly. "It was mostly because of Dawn. Then he wanted to make sure you guys could keep this place under control. Even soulless, he wasn't about apocalypses, you know?"  
  
"And why'd he come back after the soul?" you pushed, because that was what you really wanted to know.  
  
Tara took her time answering that, a delicate frown on her face and her lower lip caught between her teeth. You got the feeling that she was weighing her words carefully, trying not to reveal too much about Spike.  
  
"That's a little more complicated," she sighed. "He's not like Angel--he's not looking for redemption." You rolled your eyes because that was blatantly obvious. "But what brought him here was that he...he didn't want to be alone."  
  
You were surprised, and still are, that you didn't get that before Tara told you. You know alone, and you know how it doesn't always lead to new people but takes you back to old ones. Because there is comfort to be found with people you already know, even if what they know of you is nothing to write home about.  
  
The thing is, Spike's one of your old people, and it would be nice if you were one of his. And with what's between Spike and Tara, you know that she was the old person he was coming home to.  
  
It would also be nice if your friendship with Spike had any impact on him whatsoever, because it does on you. Those first weeks after the Council sprang you, it was Spike that helped you get settled. Not with pretty speeches or magnanimous gestures, but with eye rolling and sarcastic, digging comments. He insulted you so bitingly anytime you mentioned your past screw ups that you very quickly ceased voicing anything about them, and it wasn't long after until they stopped crossing your mind every two seconds.  
  
You couldn't thank him at the time, because he wasn't all that happy for having done it. A vampire helping a Slayer? You think it actually made him sick. But you hoped, when he came back with the bright and shiny soul, that you could let him know that you appreciate what he did. Nothing mushy, just an offhanded "yeah, thanks". Instead he seemed distant and alien to you, and you've never been able to get back to feeling familiar to him.  
  
Shaking your head, you serve yourself up some more ziti and go to the cutout between rooms, setting your plate down and hopping up on one of the stools. Tara is still eating, and Spike is flipping through the TV Guide. "Any interesting freaks come in the shop today?" you ask Tara.  
  
She swallows and then wipes her lips. "Not really. But some guy did come in asking about an Orb of Thessulah," she adds. You and Spike both stare at her, and she shrugs. "Olson is following up with him. I don't think he actually knows what it is, because he didn't ask for it by name, just showed me a picture."  
  
"Might be in the market for a fancy paperweight," Spike says, focusing on the TV Guide again.  
  
"Great," you say with disgust, tossing your fork down. You're so done with your food now. What some freaky Sunnydale denizen plans on doing with an Orb of Thessulah is going to be bothering you all damn night. "Does anyone actually use paperweights?" you ask crankily. "Because they seem pretty pointless."  
  
Tara shrugs and gets up to bring her plate in the kitchen. On the way past you, she snags your plate and scrapes the remainder of your food into the garbage. "Don't worry," she assures you quietly after she rinses off the dishes. "I'm sure it's nothing."  
  
"Yeah, right," you reply, not very convinced of that. "Besides giving recalcitrant vampires their souls back, what else can that thing be used for?"  
  
"Well," Tara says thoughtfully. "The purpose of it is to hold a soul. Josh did some checking on it. He said that there are some soul stealing spells? The Orb could be used to hold one that's been stolen."  
  
Olson is your Watcher. Josh is Olson's boyfriend. His young boyfriend, who is still in his first year of obtaining alcohol legally. It's not as bad as it sounds, because Olson is just thirty-two. It threw you to find out that your new Watcher is gay, simply because you've known a lot of Watchers and you thought they only came in one variety: repressed, British, hetero, pod people. Olson is none of these things. He doesn't talk about his sex life, and didn't do so even before he began dating Josh, but you're pretty good at reading people when it comes to sex. The man is a freak with a capital EAK. Not even a little repressed. He's also the only American Watcher you've even heard of. You thought they weren't allowed, actually.  
  
When Olson first started seeing Josh, you thought Josh wouldn't be any help where it matters. Josh reminds you of the bitchy little ravers you used to hang with, all about the partying and E. Turns out, he's got this frightening ability to organize. Seems like a small talent, yeah, but you are always amazed whenever it's time to research and Josh pulls out his box of almost a thousand index cards, which serve to point you in the right direction. He can listen to a rambling description of a demon or situation and break it down into something useful. You kind of think it's a shame that his mind isn't being put to use other than in Hellmouth activities. Olson has money, lots of money. Josh is a kept boy, and happy to be so.  
  
"But this guy looked pretty harmless," Tara continues. "A little absent minded professor-ish, you know?"  
  
And the Mayor was the epitome of goofy goodness. Appearances don't soothe your mind. You busy yourself with covering the ziti with tin foil, and Tara leans against a counter, arms crossed under her breasts, watching you with a frown. "Leave it out in case the others want some," she says distractedly.  
  
The serving spoon is in your hand and you don't realize that you've been twirling it restlessly until Tara's puts her hand on top of yours and halts the motion. You're tense, fidgety. Deftly, she removes the spoon from your grip and sets it on the counter, then picks up a dishtowel. She lifts it to your face and you step back because you didn't realize that was what she was planning to do.  
  
"Sh," she hushes you. You take a breath as she touches the cloth to your face and comes away with red spots of sauce that look too much like blood. Which is ridiculous, because the sauce is orange, not red. But, still. They're on Tara too. The sauce splattered all around when you twirled the spoon.  
  
You snatch the towel from her and rub at a splatter of sauce just below her collarbone. There's some on her shirt but you don't know whether you'll make it stain for good if you scrub at it, so you stand there in front of her, twisting the cloth in your fist until she touches the side of your face, startling you so that your eyes go to hers.  
  
The first time she did that, you flinched away and her eyes filled with hurt. You wanted to kick yourself then. You thought she was trying to come on to you and you wanted to make it clear that wasn't going to be happening. Not because she's a woman; you've climbed over the fence a time or two. Not because she's not attractive, either; the longer you know Tara, the hotter she gets. And it wasn't even because you were suspicious of her motives, worried that she might be trying to play you for something or other--because Tara is just not like that, no matter how hard you've tried to find it in her.  
  
You did it because you were trying to learn the fine art of having a friend, not someone you fucked who you were friendly with. So you flinched, and Tara hunched down on herself, and you realized you didn't know a damn thing about having a friend. You stepped forward and nodded at her, and you forced yourself not to move when her fingers whispered across your cheek. Then she tussled your hair, a teasing grin on her lips, and you laughed.  
  
"Hey there," she says softly, bringing you back into the present as her hand drifts from your face. "Why don't you call Olson to see what he found out?" She looks around the room, eyes falling on random splatters of sauce. "Maybe you could fondle something that isn't covered with spaghetti sauce next time," she says dryly, her lips quirking.  
  
You shake your head and laugh self-deprecatingly. "Yeah, all right. Sorry about that."  
  
She shoos you off with a smile and a wave of her hand, and you turn and see that Spike has abandoned the TV Guide again and is staring through the cutout with that intense gaze. You ignore it and go for the phone, hitting the speed dial button for Olson's cell. He answers on the second ring and you don't bother with pleasantries.  
  
"What's the deal with the Orb guy?"  
  
"Hello, Faith," Olson drawls. "I haven't gone to see him yet."  
  
You glare at him even though he's not here to see it. "What? Why the hell not?" you demand to know. Even to yourself you sound like a total bitch, but you don't really care. "Shouldn't that be, like, a top priority?"  
  
There is a small pause, and then Olson tells you, "It should be and it is." His tone is serious and businesslike. "I was just about to leave my house."  
  
This makes you feel like a shit, and you don't know why you even thought he wouldn't be taking this seriously, because he takes everything seriously. "Oh, well, good," you reply, nonplussed. Wait. Maybe not so good. "By yourself? You're going by yourself?"  
  
He sighs. "Josh is coming with me. I'm picking him up at the Magic Box, where we will arm ourselves to the teeth before trotting off to visit one Stanley Butters."  
  
"This sounds like a Slayer duty," you tell him. "Why don't--"  
  
"Faith." Just that. Just your name. But it stops you because of the tone. Reprimanding. "We'll be fine."  
  
You take a pencil from the desk and balance it along your knuckles before making it dance. "But this guy--"  
  
"Faith." There it is again. "I'll see you later, all right?"  
  
"Yeah," you mutter, taking the pencil in hand again and squeezing it in your fist. It snaps and you let the two pieces drop to the desk.  
  
"Good. Now, should we bring anything?" he continues, his tone more casual.  
  
"How the fuck should I know?" you ask irritably.  
  
"You shouldn't," he drawls, "but I'm assuming Tara is there for you to ask."  
  
"Hang on." You tuck the mouthpiece under your chin. "Hey, should the guys bring anything?"  
  
Tara pokes her head out of the kitchen doorway. "We're out of pop corn," she says. "Oh, and we'll need some blood for Spike."  
  
"Don't have to make them get it, luv," Spike avers. "I can pop over to Willie's before they get here." You narrow your eyes on him. "On second thought," he says slowly. "Have them get it. I'm comfy."  
  
"Pop corn and blood," you relay to Olson. The moment the words are out of your mouth, you are assaulted by an image of standing at the counter of a movie theater watching as blood is squirted over your popcorn.  
  
Apparently, you're not the only one. "Thank you very much for that," Olson says sarcastically. "Goodbye."  
  
You turn off the cordless and put it back on the charger, your hand lingering on the receiver as you frown at nothing. "Maybe I'll skip early patrol tonight," you comment idly. It's too low for Tara to hear in the kitchen, but not too low for a vampire to hear from five feet away.  
  
Your back is to him, but you can track his movements by the sounds of the sofa springs creaking, material brushing against material, and footsteps. He stops just behind you, and you turn around, your eyes darting to the kitchen.  
  
"I'm not going anywhere," he tells you quietly.  
  
"Yeah, so with three it'll be a party," you snark at him. "Or, better yet, you can go with Olson and Josh." You clasp your hands together and plaster a wide, vapid smile on your face. "And then me and Tara can do each other's hair before the slumber party begins," you chirp, then drop your hands and scowl.  
  
You try to move around him, but he steps to the side and into your path. The glare you direct at him seems to have no effect. He just raises a brow and purses his lips.  
  
"No need to be borrowing trouble just yet," he says and you know he's right. Tracey and the mysterious shopper might just be nothing. But they might be something, so you know there's no way you're going to relax. "The lovers can take care of themselves, and if something happens, I'll fight it off or get her out of here."  
  
"I just feel like a night off," you insist.  
  
Spike rubs the back of his neck. "Sure you do," he says sarcastically. "Go release some tension; we'll all be better off for it."  
  
You toss your hair and let the curtain fall. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"  
  
His mouth opens, but then he closes it and sighs. "Nothing," he says tiredly, exasperation seeping through. "Doesn't mean a bloody thing." He waves a hand at you. "Do whatever the hell you want." That said, he turns on his heel and goes back to the couch.  
  
"Fuck," you mutter, running your hands through your hair. You stalk over to the coat closet and toss the door open; it bangs against the wall and Tara lifts her brows as she comes out of the kitchen. "I'm heading out," you say, grabbing your boots and coat from the closet.  
  
She looks like she wants to say something; Spike looks fed up. You think you probably look pissed as you take your cell phone and knife from the table near the door, then leave without another word.  
  
In the courtyard, you sit on the edge of the fountain and jerk your boots on, lacing them up too tightly. Cursing, you loosen them so that blood can flow, and then shove your arms into the sleeves of your coat, glad that there are stakes hidden in the pockets because you didn't think to take any.  
  
And then you're off, cell phone clipped to your belt and knife clipped at the small of your back.  
  


* * *

  
6:30 PM - 8:00 PM  
  
After three blocks, your thoughts go full circle and take you right back to Buffy.  
  
Nights like this, you wonder how the hell she did it. Because there's a price to be paid for the good home, good friends, and good Watcher.  
  
You're paying it now, with the sick clenching of your stomach, the legs that won't go any slower than a jog, and the hands that twitch at your sides. You are the Chosen One, stress on the One. You can't patrol, stay with Tara and go with Olson all at one time. So you're patrolling. Leaving the good friends and good Watcher to fend for themselves.  
  
The lovers, as Spike calls them, are competent. They can use any weapon you keep on hand, and both are decent fighters; Olson because, as a Watcher, he was trained in a variety of styles, and Josh because he went out and earned a black belt in Tai Kwon Do once he became aware of the world he now inhabited.  
  
Tara isn't helpless, either. Granted, fighting is...not her strong suit. Hell, it's not her suit at all, but after many painstaking hours of lessons, you've managed to teach her the very basics of self-defense. And while she's pretty horrible with most weapons, you've never seen anyone better with a crossbow. Well, except yourself, of course. But what makes her not helpless is the mojo. It's not as powerful as you've heard Willow's was at the end, but Tara can use what she has to the best advantage possible.  
  
Plus, Spike's with her. A demon shows up and it'll be ripped to shreds if it so much as looks at Tara. And if it's a human that comes a'knocking, you know he'll do anything and everything to keep the person focused on him so that Tara can get out of Dodge.  
  
Spike can cover his ass on pretty much every count. He has the preternatural speed, strength and healing, and he's been around long enough to have learned how to get himself out of tricky situations.  
  
Logically, you know and believe all of this. Emotionally, all you can do is worry.  
  
Josh and Olson are useless when it comes to fending off magic, so if this Stanley Butters is a sorcerer, or is in league with one, they're screwed. And they have the whole mortality thing going on, which means that no matter how good they are with weapons or fighting, all it could take is one good hit to bring them down.  
  
Spike's clever diversionary tactics won't work if a *group* of humans raids the apartment. At the very least they'd be able to incapacitate him; at the worst, dust him. Which would then leave Tara vulnerable, because her magic isn't strong enough or advanced enough to hold off a large group without someone running interference, and you don't have much faith in her self- defense unless it's one-on-one.  
  
Maybe your paranoia is an issue, after all.  
  
You come to a halt and realize you're in the shopping area. Your feet have taken you through the residential area to the business district, and are currently pointed in the direction of Sunnydale Arms. All without your input. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You take a breath and then lash out at a parking meter next to you, punching it and knocking the dark gray coin repository off the light gray pole.  
  
It doesn't help, so you kick at the pole until it snaps at the base, just above the cement, and rolls into the gutter. Several passing pedestrians eye you warily and hurry away. No one says anything, and you don't notice anyone taking out a cell phone to call the police. Yay Sunnydale.  
  
You sink into a crouching position and briefly consider running off. It's not something you'll do; you've run from your duty more than enough, and if you do it again there'll be no coming back. Besides, you don't want to run from your duty. Just the people. But, really, you don't want to do that either. You do like having them in your life.  
  
You get to your feet and start towards Sunnydale Arms at a more reasonable pace, stubbornly refusing to think about everything that could go wrong. The closer you get, the less you worry. You once told Buffy that Slaying is what the two of you were made for and, despite all the things you've said and realized later were complete bullshit, you know this is true.  
  
You are made for this.  
  
For the hunt.  
  
For the fight.  
  
For the kill.  
  
It pulses through you, makes your skin tingle and your movements fluid.  
  
It sharpens the world around you, parts the shadows for your eyes.  
  
This. Is. What. You. Are.  
  
There is no longer the selfish self-indulgent pleasure there used to be in Slaying. You still enjoy it, get off on it, get energized by it, but not like before. It's no longer about you. It's about everything and everyone else. Once you accepted this, you noticed that something else had come to life inside of you, inside of your Slayer body. Something ancient that felt too large for you to contain. Something right.  
  
You used to think, way back when, that you were one with the night because you were a Slayer. God, you were such a fool. The power-junkie high you reveled in was nothing compared to the real deal you've got now. When the sun goes down, you can feel the night rise. In some primal way, you and the night own each other. It's not so much a rush as a sensation of belonging, of joining.  
  
When you're on routine patrols, you can succumb to your instincts. Let them guide you of their own accord so that it requires no conscious thought to bring your prey down, just the heeding of that part of you which has been doing this for eternity.  
  
You welcome this, but you don't do it very often, because it could become addictive, could blind you to the larger picture that is about more than just the vampires you kill in cemeteries. Because it is about more. It's about people who want to do bad things, demons with grand schemes, and a whole bunch of other things that you need your mind on board to defeat.  
  
But every once in a while you can let go. And tonight that is what you're doing.  
  
You prowl through the shadows of Sunnydale Arms, coming up on the vampires without them sensing you until it's too late. They are so much dust and ash before they can blink, and you move on without pausing. Three vamps and fifteen minutes later, Sunnydale Arms is purged and you stay in the shadows as you make your way to the next cemetery, just four blocks over.  
  
There's a nest there. You know this the second you enter the graveyard. It would be too fanciful to say that you know this because the night tells you. That's not the case. That vamp radar that's built into you is going off like crazy. You can tell it's coming from the middle of the cemetery and you stop by a tree, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. Without deciding to do so, you've climbed the tree, found a sturdy branch to take off from, and then you are leaping from tree to tree, limb to limb.  
  
The slight breeze disguises the sounds you make, and when you pass over a lone vamp walking below, a stake is in your hand and then in his chest without your latest leap being interrupted or noticed.  
  
You land silently on top of the large mausoleum that is your destination. You perch there, head cocked to the side as you listen to them moving and talking. They're loud, taking no pains to disguise their presence. They are young. Weak. The older ones know there is a Slayer in this town, know the fundamental truth that the ones below you will never get to learn: you are designed to be stronger, faster, better and more cunning than the animals you hunt.  
  
There are seven that you can hear, which means there are very likely ten to twelve vamps actually inside. When you are entirely yourself, your decisions are different. The who you are, the Faith in you, would rush into the mausoleum and taken them head on. The what you are, the Slayer in you, does things differently. So you jump up and back, off the roof of the mausoleum, and land several feet behind it.  
  
You remove the stakes from your jacket and stash them on your person. At your waist, at your ankle, in your cleavage. You shrug the jacket off and remove a Zippo lighter from one of its pockets, then toss both to the ground at your feet. It takes a minute or two to find what you're looking for, a branch that is long and mostly straight. You wind the jacket around one end of the branch, using the sleeves to tie it in place so that it doesn't fall off, and you bat it around a few times to test it. Satisfied, you pick up the lighter and flip the top open. There is a smile on your face as you flick your thumb and a flame comes to life, as you hold the flame to the material of your jacket and watch it catch.  
  
There are no witty comments when you stalk into the mausoleum. There is just a Slayer, there to kill the monsters, and they don't stand a chance. You have the torch in your left hand, a stake in your right hand, and they are not prepared for your dexterity, for your agility. They talk and taunt to distract you, but you don't hear them. Their words are nothing. Only their movements matter, and these you track effortlessly, even while you are setting one of their companions on fire.  
  
You track them not just with your eyes, but with your ears and with your gut, and they are not successful when they try to sneak up behind you. They are not successful in anything they do, and by the time the jacket has been burned to the quick and you toss the torch away, only you are left standing. Only you are still flesh.  
  
It is then that you become Faith again, and you laugh.  
  
The mausoleum is fucking huge. A family deal. The skeletons of the interred have been pulled from the heavy marble places of rest and positioned around the room. Some in positions that are more than a little obscene. A ratty sofa, and a couple of dirty mattresses are scattered around.  
  
"Shitheads," you mutter, tucking your stake in the waistband of your pants. It's the only one that wasn't dusted along with the vamps.  
  
This is the second nest you've found here and you want it to be the last. It probably won't be, but you're going to try to make it the last in a long while. You put the skeletons back in the sarcophaguses, not entirely sure you've got the right body in the right marble box, but figuring it's still better than what the vamps did to them.  
  
There's a metal trashcan in the corner, the kind you normally find on a sidewalk, and you go to it and peer down. "Oh, gross!" you exclaim, jumping back from the container.  
  
There are intestines in there, and about a million maggots are having a feast. No wonder the place reeks. You wish the vampires were alive again so that you could take them out with a little less efficiency and a lot more pain.  
  
You clean up as best you can, tossing bottles and cans of alcohol and-- disturbingly enough--YooHoo on top of the intestines and maggots, shivering in disgust and about to vomit.  
  
With your feet, you sweep as much of the remnants of the vamps as you can into a pile in the center of the room. You look like a demented clown or Irish jig dancer, but in the end you've got an impressive amount of dust gathered.  
  
The next step is getting the junk out. Luckily, Sunnydale cemetery caretakers are used to strange things, and you know no one will think twice about the garbage can and furniture you stack outside of the mausoleum entrance. You take a cushion from the sofa and cover the top of the can. No sense making someone else sick to their stomach.  
  
At the entrance, you pause and squint at the back wall before making your way to it. The knife is at the small of your back. You lift the leg of your pants, making a long, shallow cut on your calf, biting your lip at the small pain. You wipe the knife clean on your jeans, resheathe the knife and then squeeze the wound to draw blood.  
  
With your index finger coated, you start writing on the wall. You have to make another cut since the first one starts clotting, but you finish your task and go back to the entrance.  
  
Painted in your blood on the back wall are the words, "Three Minutes, Twelve Seconds!" Below that, there is an arrow pointing down. From your position at the doorway, optical illusion kicks in, making it look like the pile of ash is directly below the arrow. In all honesty, you don't know how the hell long it took you to dust the vamps, and you think most of what you swept up is real dust, but you're going for effect here.  
  
"Good enough," you say, shrugging and turning away. "Enjoy your quality time, Pascal Family."  
  
You're more centered now, more focused, and you can breathe a little easier. Just a little. You take your cell phone out and scroll through the calls you've recently received. When you get to the call three nights before, when Tara phoned from Tracey's, you stop and push the talk button.  
  
It rings four times before Tracey answers, and you hang up without saying anything. Good enough. You start to clip phone to your waistband, but change your mind. Instead, you call Josh's phone, which only requires punching two buttons because you're all on a family plan.  
  
"What is it, hot stuff?" Josh greets you.  
  
"Hey, you guys make the pit stops yet?" you ask him. In the back of your head, you've decided to hit two more cemeteries on this round of patrols, so you start walking to the first one as Josh tells you that they've just left Willie's.  
  
"Cool. Can you pick up some chocolate for me? All we've got in the house is that dark shit Tara likes."  
  
"For you? Of course," Josh agrees. "By the way, it was a bust with Stanley Butters. He wasn't home when we went by."  
  
"Yeah?" you comment casually. "I guess I can get the address from you guys and poke around later. No sense letting it wait."  
  
"That's what Eric suggested."  
  
You are always startled when Josh refers to Olson by his first name. Olson is not Eric. He's Olson. Which is kind of funny, because Wesley was always Wesley, and Gwendolyn Post was Gwendolyn. At least, until you found out she was evil, then she became Cunt. Only Giles was never known by his first name. You wonder if you call your latest Watcher by his last name because he's the only one you've had that ranks up there with Giles.  
  
"Anyway, we'll see you shortly with copious amounts of orgasmic sweets," Josh continues. "What movie did you get?"  
  
Shit. You completely forgot that you're the one getting the movie. Looks like you'll only be skulking through one more cemetery instead of two. "Still deciding," you temporize. "But Tara wants a comedy."  
  
"And what Tara wants, Tara gets," Josh sings dramatically.  
  
This is true. If it had been anyone else asking for a comedy, you would have come home with whatever you damn well wanted. But Tara very rarely asks for anything, so you honor her requests whenever possible.  
  
"Yes, she does," you say, and your voice is hard. "Is there a problem?"  
  
Josh laughs. "Relax, honey," he coos. "It's all good. She brings out everyone's soft spot, and we're lucky that she doesn't abuse her power over us." He pauses for a beat, then says bitchily, "Besides, with you picking out the movie? She probably said that so we weren't subjected to another cheesy slasher flick."  
  
"Or suicidal melodrama," you shoot right back at him.  
  
"Hey!" he protests. "Don't blame me for Eric's choices." He sniffs importantly. "If you recall, my pick was a rousing success."  
  
"Only for you and Tara, pretty boy," you snicker. "The rest of us were about to claw your face off for that romance you forced us to watch." He starts to reply, but you don't want to be on the phone with him for the next hour, which is likely to happen because he just loves to talk. "Look, I gotta finish my round. See you later."  
  
You like Josh. A lot. In this little group of yours, he's the one that reminds everyone that your lives are not all about the Fight. There's more. Like sitting in the park and eyeing hot shirtless guys in the summer. Or watching movies. Or tons of other things that all boil down to enjoying the quiet time, and doing things together that have fuck all to do with fighting the Fight.  
  
Everyone else tends to get bogged down by it all, but Josh never does. On more than one occasion he has begged, threatened and forced all of you out to some inane place or other--like the mall--and infected all of you with his exuberance. It's like a mission for him and you wonder where it comes from. But Josh is tight-lipped about a lot of things, despite how much he talks. You think he's one of those people who are really self-aware, but not big on the sharing.  
  
The Pleasant Rest cemetery takes only a few minutes to get to. You're trying for Faith Efficient now, rather than Slayer Efficient. As such, there is no slinking and sliding in the shadows. You are out in plain sight and you make no effort to not snap twigs as you walk. Most vampires are stupid and arrogant. They'll come anyway. The first one plays at being lost, his boyish face confused as he asks you how to get back to the street. You point in a random direction and are ready when he uses your supposed moment of distraction to try to grab your arm.  
  
Then it's on to the fisticuffs. (Word of the Day two, maybe three months ago. You won't dare say it aloud because you know you'll get torn to shreds unless you use it in a way that's obviously mockery.) It takes a pitiful amount of effort to dust him, because he's strong but he knows shit all about fighting. You dodge his sloppy attacks and then sigh disgustedly as one of his lunges takes him right past you, and gives you the opportunity to reach out a lazy hand and jam the stake into his back.  
  
The second one thinks she's being stealthy, but she so isn't. You hear her coming long before you feel her, and you know it's a she because of the scent of perfume the breeze carries to you. Bitch tries to slam her fist into the side of your head, but you duck back and return the favor. The hit connects and she stumbles.  
  
You don't normally take much notice of how a vamp looks, unless there's something blatantly worth mocking--like outdated fashions or nasty breath. Or, the best: big hair. But you notice this one, because her clothes are wicked. Granted, you stopped wearing the short leather skirts a while back, and the top is a little too see-through for your tastes, but the boots kick ass. They go to mid thigh, and they're vinyl and shiny in the moonlight.  
  
"Nice boots," you comment when she comes at you again. You block a punch and spin into a kick, your foot landing against her side and sending her off balance. "Where'd you get 'em?"  
  
She ignores you and you mentally shrug. Whatever. Boots will be dust in a few and you're sure you can track down a pair like them. The coat she's got on though, that's a different story. It's leather, fitted and falls to her hips, and it's in a really dark shade of purple that some people call eggplant. You want the coat, and since yours was sacrificed earlier for the Good of the Cause, you maneuver behind her and wrap an arm around her neck, the move made easier because she still hasn't found her footing again.  
  
She doesn't cooperate with the taking of her coat, and you have to wrestle around a little--you think you hear something of hers snap but you're not sure--but you finally get the thing off of her, and then you get down to the business of staking. Maybe she thinks you want another piece of her attire, and that's why she doesn't take more caution when she comes at you again. Her mistake. It's almost like she just runs at the stake and impales herself. You repeat your earlier sigh of disgust.  
  
The coat is slung over your shoulder, folded so that the black lining is showing. Eggplant colored leather and the royal blue of your shirt don't really go and you'd rather not look like a fashion victim, thanks.  
  
You think Giles would have a shitfit about stealing the coat. He'd probably be scandalized, affronted. You don't think there's anything wrong with it. It's not as if you shoplifted it, or stole it from a corpse, or something like that. Reformed you may be, but you're still practical when it comes down to it. No sense in a perfectly good--and slamming--coat going to dust.  
  
You don't see any fresh graves as you go along, making your way through the cemetery to the back exit, and your Slayer senses are quiet, so you step through the gate and onto the sidewalk. In less than five minutes you're at a large video chain store. The lights are so damn bright that you wince when you step inside. You remember, from your childhood, the days of video stores before the chains came along. They were small places with tall shelves and grumpy owners behind the counter.  
  
Now you never know where to start when you go into a video store. You stand just inside, not far past the electric detectors people have to enter and exit through. A bored looking teenager comes up to you.  
  
"Hi and welcome to VideoMania," he says in a low monotone. "What are you in the mood for tonight?"  
  
Your lips twist and you look the kid up and down. He can't be older than sixteen, and his face is in that horrible stage where it's all oil and pustules. He's got a polyester blue smock draped over a white formal shirt, and if he knows the double meaning to what he just said, then he's said it to enough grandmas and men to become desensitized. Poor thing even has a cheery name tag that tells you his name is "Carter". You idly wonder whose idea it was to put the smiling bucket of popcorn pin right next to the second R. You know it certainly wasn't Carter's.  
  
"Yeah, I need a comedy," you tell him, not wanting to come out and laugh because Carter looks like he knows just how pathetic he is and it's no fun when they actually know you're laughing at them.  
  
His face drops. He was hoping you would say you didn't need help. Fuck that. "New release, or a classic?" he asks with a sigh.  
  
"New release."  
  
"VHS or DVD?"  
  
"Doesn't matter. We've got both." That stumps him, and his body moves one way while his head turns another. You take pity on him, because you think he's getting paid very little. "DVD."  
  
"Are you interested in a family oriented movie for your viewing pleasure?" he drones on as he leads you down an aisle. You're kind of impressed at the utter lack of inflection in his voice. That takes talent.  
  
"Family? You mean, like some kind of Disney shit?" you ask, frowning.  
  
"We have a range of selections rated G to PG," he informs you.  
  
"Oh. I want something a group of people my age will find funny." You tilt your head to the side, considering the fact that the comedy was Tara's request and she's...reserved. "But not one with all the sex jokes and fart humor."  
  
As you both stroll passed the New Release wall, Carter limply points out several options. There's one whose case proclaims it's "Laugh out loud funny!!!!" but the picture of nuns on the front has you putting it back almost immediately. You don't like any of the choices you're offered, so you ask Carter to take you to the classics session, stressing that you don't mean classic in the black-and-white sense.  
  
Carter shuffles along and you follow, the amusement welling up inside of you. He's a trip, and you bet that he spends his lunch period telling his friends about the idiots he has to deal with at work just so that he can buy that new computer he wants.  
  
At the correct aisle, Carter leaves you to pick out a movie and you scan your eyes through the As, not really finding anything you'll be able to watch without complaining so much that Tara ends up feeling bad that she asked you to get a comedy. In the middle of the Bs you see it. You are about to become movie night queen.  
  
Carter is back at his post, so you head directly to him and he gives you a disinterested look.  
  
"I need some horror flicks. Bad horror flicks," you clarify.  
  
His look doesn't change as he shuffles you to the horror section, which is not clearly labeled and which you know you wouldn't have found on your own. Damn stores.  
  
Three more selections later, you bring your handful of empty cases to the counter and wait while the peppy cheerleader type behind it gathers the discs. "Did you find everything you were looking for!?" she asks perkily, smile almost blinding and eyes blinking far more than is necessary.  
  
"Uh, yeah, I did." She stares at you, as though waiting for more, so you awkwardly add, "Carter was a big help."  
  
Her smile freezes in a This Does Not Compute manner. "He was?" she asks dubiously, then regains her happy frappy persona. "That's great! Enjoy your selections!"  
  
She slides the movies along an extension of the counter, leaving them waiting for you on the other side of the electronic archway. You have to pass by Carter to get to them, and when you see him again, you consider the fact that freaky smile girl could have been the one on door duty, her saccharine voice suggesting movies. In a way, he's just saved you fifteen minutes of annoyance, and a migraine.  
  
You dig into your pocket and pull out your cash. "Hey, here you go," you say, holding out a bill. He doesn't even look at it.  
  
"We're not allowed to accept tips, but thank you for offering. Enjoy your selections."  
  
The way he says that last bit--bland, flat and bored--makes you want him to have the money even more. That tone is just what that horrible little comment deserves since you know all the employees are probably forced to say it. Just like those minimum wage earning shleps at Friday's are forced to do that damn Happy Birthday clapping thing.  
  
You smile encouragingly at Carter. "Not a tip, man. I'm paying back some money I borrowed."  
  
A spark of interest comes to life in his eyes, and blossoms when he finally glances down and sees just how much he leant you. He takes the fifty and crams it into his pocket as quickly as he can.  
  
"You working tomorrow, Carter?" you ask as you step through the detector and pick up your bag of movies.  
  
"Yeah," he answers, confused.  
  
"With that cold you've got coming on? Wow, you're a real trooper." You pull open the door and wink at him. From the little smile on his face, you know he's going to be calling in sick tomorrow. "See you around," you toss over your shoulder as you leave.  
  
On the way back home, you do a tally for the first round of patrol.  
  
Decimating a nest of vamps: your duty fulfilled.  
  
Returning the Pascals to their peaceful rest: a nice bit of Karma earned.  
  
Dusting some stragglers: just plain fun.  
  
Obtaining one fine leather coat: bitching.  
  
Renting a comedy that everyone will praise you for picking out: priceless.  
  
All in all, a rousing success. Go you.  
  
Your thoughts drift to the situations that may or may not be at hand. Mr. Butters will be getting a middle-of-the-night visit from you when you do your second round of patrols, leaving Josh and Olson to spoon after what will most likely be an earth-shattering session of after-movie-night sex. Depending on the vibes you get, you may or may not break into Mr. Butters' home if he's still not in when you get there.  
  
The Tracey thing is a non-issue at the moment. Spike would have called you on the cell if something developed. You know this without doubt. He's protective of all of you, Tara especially. No way would he not let you know that Tracey was lurking around again.  
  
You unclip the cell from your belt and push the two buttons necessary to call the apartment. Spike answers, and you can hear Josh and Olson in the background, arguing about popcorn.  
  
"It's me," you say, somewhat uncomfortably. You've just remembered that you were a raving bitch to Spike before you left. "I wanted to see if the guys forgot anything." Spike is silent. "Just in case I needed to make a stop or something."  
  
"No, they didn't forget anything," he says tightly. "Is that it?"  
  
Yeah, he's pissed. "Look, about earlier--"  
  
That's as far as you get, because then you hear Tara say, "Hello?"  
  
"Tara? What happened to Spike?"  
  
"He, um, kind of handed me the phone and went outside," she tells you slowly. "I think he's smoking. Did you need to talk to me?"  
  
Fuck fuck fuck. "Not really," you answer. "Making sure Josh and Olson got everything we need, and Spike said they did, so I'll see you in a few."  
  
"All right."  
  
You hang up and shove the phone in the plastic bag from VideoMania. You neglected to list a few items on your patrol tally and the night was not as successful as you thought it was a few minutes ago.  
  
When you get into the courtyard of the building, Spike is standing by the front door, smoking. He looks up when he hears you approach, and lowers the cigarette from his mouth so that he can shove it into the waist high ashtray filled with sand that Tara thoughtfully set up for him.  
  
He keeps his eyes on you, giving you the third intense stare of the night, and you stop next to the fountain, not sure what you should say or even if you should say anything. So you stare right back at him.  
  
Of your group of friends, Spike is the one who is not yours. Not only was he around during the Buffy days, but he loved her and he was there when she died, when they all died. He's Buffy's. Funny, that. Tara was there for it all, too. But you consider her yours. Probably because Tara really wasn't that close to any of Buffy's crew except for Willow. Spike, though? Yeah, Spike is, and always will be, Buffy's.  
  
You have never forgotten this, and you never will. Mostly because it's something he made sure you didn't forget in those early days after you first arrived. There was a line drawn around him, and even though you two shared the apartment, that line was never crossed. You were a Slayer not named Buffy, and he was a vampire who could not bite. And never the twain did meet on any kind of meaningful level.  
  
He helped you. He watched your back. He was friendly. He gave Giles shit on your behalf. He liked and respected you, in his own soulless vampire way.  
  
But you know that you never got past the first couple of layers of Spike.  
  
He turns and goes inside, leaving the door open for you.  
  
With your spiffin' new jacket, and the bag of movies, you follow behind.  
  
All in all, a total failure. You suck  
  
And you definitely should have gone with the liquid eyeliner.  
  


* * *

  
8:00 - 10:00 PM  
  
You are rushed at by Josh the second you step across the threshold. He snatches the VideoMania bag from you, pausing to smack his lips against your cheek in a hello kiss, then shoving his hand into the bag and pulling out the movies.  
  
You close the door behind you and set the knife and stake on the table just next to the door. Bending down, you untie your boots, kicking them off and then stashing them in the closet. You hang up the coat as well, and it's when you're sliding it onto a hanger that Josh notices it.  
  
"Oooh," he says, lifting a hand and touching the sleeve. "Soft as butter. Was it a scavenge?"  
  
"Yeah," you say. "Some trashy vamp over at my last stop."  
  
"And you just decided to get rid of *your* coat since you got that one?" Tara asks, her eyes twinkling. She's standing by the couch, passing a bowl of popcorn to Olson.  
  
You shake your head, grinning a little. "Nah, had to use mine to torch a nest of vamps in Tranquility Falls."  
  
Spike raises a brow. "Pascal mausoleum?" he asks knowingly, and you nod.  
  
You step further into the room, your intention to go to the kitchen and gather the chocolate Josh promised he would get. But Spike narrows his eyes and reaches out to grab your arm as you pass him.  
  
"Blood," he says. It just so happens there is a lull in conversation at that moment, and the word cuts through the silence. Everyone's looking at you, and then Spike sniffs again and says, "*Your* blood."  
  
Tara hurries over to you, eyes worried. "How bad?"  
  
"Relax, babe," you say negligently. "Totally self-inflicted. Left a little message at the Pascals'. No worries." She frowns at you and you resist the urge to punch Spike in the face. "Seriously, it's just two little scratches, see?"  
  
You lift your pants leg and show her the shallow cuts, and she actually bends down to look closely at them before she nods in satisfaction.  
  
"Anyone else want to inspect me?" you ask sarcastically. When no one takes you up on the offer, you let your pants fall back into place, and head into the kitchen.  
  
"No way!" you hear Josh scream from the kitchen. "Faith, I bow down before you in absolute fucking supplication."  
  
He comes to the cut out, holding out the comedy and smiling widely. In a night of more failure than success, it's nice to hear that you've done something right.  
  
"Calm yourself down, princess," you snicker. "Bowing's not necessary, but you *can* tell me where you put my chocolate."  
  
He yells something about a drawer and you figure he stashed it in the candy/cookie drawer. Why he put it away is beyond you. It's going to be eaten tonight. You and Josh do a little dance as you both try to get through the doorway at the same time, then step aside to let the other pass. Finally, you grab his neck, yank him out of the kitchen, then go in.  
  
Olson comes in while you're rummaging through the freezer for some ice cream you know is there. You distinctly remember hiding the small container behind the frozen carrots so that Josh wouldn't hoover it down. But, alas, it's not there and you're not sure if Josh found it, or if Tara had a craving.  
  
"Hey," you greet him, not paying too much attention because you're peering into the small plastic garbage can, trying to see if there's an empty container of ice cream.  
  
"How were patrols?" Olson asks. He slides past you and takes a beer out of the fridge. "Any trouble?"  
  
There is no sign of the ice cream container. "Routine," you tell him. " I did my Ancient Forces Live Inside Me shtick."  
  
He leans against a counter and looks at you. "Ah."  
  
You've gotten used to Olson's not chatty nature. Time was, it would make you feel like you had to fill the awkward silence, but now you're as comfortable with it as you are with Olson himself.  
  
You wouldn't call him a friend, not in the traditional sense of the word. Both of you hold a little back, each for different reasons. Sure, you trust Olson and he's never let you down. But your experiences with Watchers haven't been anything to write home about and you think you'll always be waiting for the other shoe to drop. And Olson devoured Giles' journals when he arrived. Not just the official ones, either. Giles left his personal, private journals behind for a time so that Olson could fully understand what he was getting himself into with being in charge of a Slayer--you in particular--on the Hellmouth.  
  
Having glanced through those journals a few times, and having been present for some of it, you know that Olson is trying to keep a distance to maybe prevent some of what Giles went through.  
  
But you're not just Watcher and Slayer, either. You think you'll be shocked if the other shoe ever does drop, because it seems less likely to happen with each day that passes, and Olson spends too much non-business time with you for it not to have gotten a little bit personal for him.  
  
The most important thing, to you at any rate, is that you trust him. Really trust him. Far more than you thought you would. Which was why you told him about your episodes of channeling the Slayer in you. He wasn't surprised about it, telling you that Buffy had something similar happen to her. He calls it a Slayer Rite of Passage, thinks it kicks in when a Slayer is at a point when she can fully comprehend the magnitude of what she is.  
  
He agreed with you about it becoming addictive, about it taking your sights away from the big picture. He asked you to let him know whenever you do, so you have.  
  
"I've come to notice a pattern," Olson is saying. You look at him curiously. "You seem to do this when you're...stressed."  
  
You wonder what his first word of choice was.  
  
"You think so?" you ask, noncommittally, opening the drawer that Josh said he stashed the chocolate in. Oooh, the pretty boy got you Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Score.  
  
"In fact, I'd be interested to see if the opportunity even arises at other times," Olson continues. "Giles and the others had an encounter with the spirit of the first Slayer, who was, shall we say, not pleased that Buffy had friends."  
  
You open the candy and peel off the tissue-like brown paper at the bottom of the peanut butter cup.  
  
"So, what?" you ask, gesturing with the cup. "You think the first Slayer part of me is hoping that I'll give in and not come back? Trying to get me at a weak point?"  
  
The peanut butter cup is crammed into your mouth, whole. You work it around, letting some of the chocolate start to melt before you begin to chew.  
  
"A possibility," he says, shrugging. "But I was thinking more along the lines of it being a subconscious mechanism that serves as a way for you to ground yourself. Until recently, Slayers have always been alone. Retreating to familiar territory can be reassuring, comforting."  
  
You swallow your chocolate and peanut butter, thinking about what he said. If it is something that's in your hands, however much you don't realize it, then it is another weapon you have. You need to know how to use this.  
  
"Let's find out if that's the case, then," you tell him, prepping the second piece of candy.  
  
Olson nods approvingly. "I'll come up with some ideas on how to do that. In the meantime," he adds ruefully. "There is movie night to contend with."  
  
You snicker. Olson might not be that much older than you are, but he's got way different tastes. You suppose that comes from him being raised by moneyed folk. He's pretty refined. All of his clothes are designer label, and properly understated. He drives a huge Mercedes SUV, which he claims he only does because a SUV is necessary in our line of work and the Mercedes is the safest. Whatever floats his boat. You know he went with the Mercedes because of the name.  
  
His apartment is posh and, again, properly understated. Until you met Olson, you didn't know that spending gobs of money on things that look like they *don't* cost gobs of money, but have fancy designer names attached, is the sign of Old Money. Of people whose families have been rich for just about ever.  
  
"Give me a minute. I need food," you tell Olson, and he pushes away from the counter and walks into the living room with his beer.  
  
You're in the mood for more ziti. You think Tara might have anticipated it, so you take a chance and pop open the microwave door. Sure enough, there's a plate of the stuff, just waiting for you to heat up. See, Tara rocks. You set the timer and dig through the drawer for more chocolate, then grab a bottle of water and a can of soda from the fridge.  
  
While you wait for the ziti to heat, you hear the sounds of everyone getting settled in the living room and you glance in. Josh and Olson are curled up on the loveseat, which they've repositioned so that they have a good view of the television. Spike is crouched down by the DVD player, movie case in his hand and the player gobbling up the disc. Tara is sitting on the sofa, Indian Style, her long skirt pulled above her knees to accommodate the position and leaving her calves bare. Spike absently tickles one of her feet as he sits to her right, at the end.  
  
The microwave beeps and you take out the dish of ziti, gathering all of your stuff and going into the living room to sit on Tara's other side. She smiles at you, a hopeful expression on her face, and reaches to the coffee table to acquire a bowl of popcorn. "What did you rent, anyway? No one will tell me."  
  
"Something you'll like," you assure her.  
  
"Okay."  
  
Josh brandishes the remote. "Ready?"  
  
Everyone gives their ascent, and Josh hits play. You turn your head and watch Tara's face expectantly. When the title screen comes up, her face breaks into a happy grin, and she does a small little bounce on the cushions.  
  
"'Big Trouble in Little China'," she says incredulously. "Wow. I haven't seen this in...ages. Wow." She frowns a little. "I remember thinking it was funny, but I don't think I remember any specifics."  
  
"It's funny," Spike tells her. "Complete cheese. Just your cuppa, luv."  
  
And Tara is the first to break the popcorn boundary when she tosses two fluffy kernels at Spike's face. He lets them connect, and the scowl he gives her promises retribution.  
  
Josh starts the movie and you shovel food into your mouth through the first five minutes. You set the plate on the coffee table, then open one of the chocolate bars. You can feel Tara's eyes on you, and you deliberately savor the first peanut butter cup.  
  
"Say, you wouldn't happen to know where the ice cream went, would you, Ta?" you ask around the treat.  
  
"There was a demon," she tells you solemnly. "An exotic one. I had to research for hours." She sighs. "In the end, only feeding it a half a pint of Chunky Monkey, and waiting until it was too stuffed to move faster than a snail, was the only way I could kill it." You look at her, raising a disbelieving brow. "I saved the world?" she adds, and you can see the subtle spark of teasing in her eyes.  
  
"Good one," you acknowledge with a shrug and fork over the other peanut butter cup.  
  
"Be quiet," Olson grumbles. "This is exactly why I don't like movie nights." He pauses for a moment. "Well, that and the horrible pieces of tripe you people think are worth the rental fee."  
  
Josh feeds him a piece of popcorn. "It could be worse," he reminds Olson. "Remember our trip to the movie theater?"  
  
You were all kicked out. By a fifteen-year-old girl. Olson and Tara weren't pleased. They weren't the ones who spat wet JuJuBees into annoying people's hair; that was you and Josh. Spike was simply amused by the whole thing, and you still suspect that at least one of those JuJuBees came from his seat.  
  
"I can't forget, actually," Olson says with a sigh. "That girl works at the Starbucks down the street from the shop now. I see her every damn morning. She won't sell me anything that can be used as a projectile."  
  
"That's a shame," Spike interjects. "Those mints they have there are pretty good for coffee breath, and blood breath, too."  
  
"Sh!" Tara admonishes all of you, and silence reigns once again.  
  
At least, for the moment it does. You all can't be together without bickering, arguing, and cursing. That's just how it is. You've got the attitude, Spike has the snark, Josh has the bitchiness, and Olson has the all-purpose orneriness. Tara is the long-suffering matriarch, the lone port of maturity in the sea of adolescent-minded adults. Like the mom on that "Malcolm in the Middle" show, except Tara yells less. All right, you've only ever heard Tara yell twice.  
  
It's a powder keg of personalities, but luckily none of you take any of the others very seriously. Tara says it's like a family, and maybe it is. You don't really know much about family. It was just you and your mom. You know people think that there was huge amounts of drama and abuse when you were young--maybe even some molestation because that would explain your in-your- face sexuality--but the reality was pretty tame against all that.  
  
Your mom was an alcoholic. She basically left you to fend for yourself. Obviously, this was not a good thing, but it could have been a lot worse. She didn't hit you; that would have meant she was actually aware of your existence. She didn't bring men back to the apartment; you think her only lover was the bottle.  
  
There was *some* drama, though. There was you staying up every night to make sure that she didn't fall asleep, or pass out, on her back and choke on vomit. There were times when you had to search the house for every scrap of change you could find so that you could get a bottle for her, because DTs are not pretty to watch. And there was the utter lack of a relationship with the only person in your life.  
  
You don't really talk about it much, never have. When you became a Slayer, you pushed it all away and decided it didn't matter. But it mattered a lot more than you thought, and that came through loud and clear when you had Buffy chained to a wall--or so you thought--and you were making pathetic, angry comments about puppies ad shit.  
  
Even now, it apparently still does matter on some kind of level, because one night you gave Tara the rundown on your life in Boston. Your only excuse was that you were kind of twitchy from patrol, and there were chocolate covered almonds being dug out of vanilla ice cream with spoons and eaten on their own.  
  
That was one of the few times you've seen Tara angry. You didn't understand why, at first. It was only after she told you about *her* family that you realized where the anger came from. (And her family better hope that they don't ever get the urge to come back to Sunnydale for her, because you will put a hurt on them that will signal a short and satisfying reversion to type.) When Tara was growing up, her mother was the one point of light in her life. Her mother gave her the love, the attention and the affection that she needed. To hear about another mother being so derelict in those duties had shaken her foundation of How Things Are.  
  
The movie passes without incident until the last ten minutes, when Josh oh- so-casually swings his popcorn bowl and lets the contents fly at Tara, who is watching the movie with her usual concentration. Of course, it hits you and Spike in the process--and wouldn't you know it, there's a mostly full bowl on Tara's lap. She's still blinking in confusion when you and Spike grab for the bowl. A short tug of war ensues, and then an inopportune twist sends the popcorn on Tara's lap. Both of you freeze.  
  
Spike looks at you. You look at Spike. Josh starts laughing and then Tara has scooped an armful of popcorn up. You're not expecting it, so that's why she's able to pull at the collar of your shirt and dump the popcorn in it. And, oh damn, it's in your fucking bra.  
  
"Son of a bitch!" you shout, jumping to your feet and digging down your shirt. "This shit is sharp."  
  
You pull the bottom of your bra away from your body and try to shake the popcorn out. But most of it stays, and it'll take a shower to get rid of it. Tara's watching you with glittering eyes and twitchy lips, and you smile at her and take a step towards her.  
  
Her eyes go wide, and she quickly reaches over and grabs at Spike's waist. He lets himself be yanked across her lap, and then moves the rest of the way so that he's in between the two of you. Tara's face peeks out from behind one of his shoulders, and she sticks her tongue out at you.  
  
There is no sufficient amount of popcorn left in any one place to retaliate in kind. Tara knows it and she's crossing her eyes at you and giggling. Spike, in front of her, rolls his eyes in disgust, but there's some amusement there. Olson and Josh are on the floor, laughing.  
  
Laughing. Huh. You move fast, pushing Spike to the side and then pushing Tara down. She stares up at you, blinking a bit in surprise, then tries to squirm away when she realizes what you're about.  
  
"I'm sorry!" she says quickly. "Really. Sorry. Um, I'll make some more popcorn. And you can get me back."  
  
"Take it like a woman, pet," Spike drawls.  
  
You're kind of half sprawled across his lap and you grin down at Tara. "Oh, I'm already going to get you back, Ta."  
  
"It's torture!" Tara cries out. "Verifiable torture." She gives you big, wide, innocent, pleading eyes. "Don't torture me, Faithie."  
  
You freeze for a moment, and Spike notices. "Oh, do it, Slayer. Brat needs to be taught a lesson, and I'll do it if you won't."  
  
You shake off thoughts that you have no business thinking, and then your hands are at Tara's ribs, and she's laughing uncontrollably as you tickle her. You're actually barely touching her. Sometimes, you only have to get *close* to her ribs for her to start laughing like a maniac.  
  
"Learned your lesson?" you ask after a few moments. Tara nods, tears of laughter trickling from her eyes, and her face pretty red. "What lesson did you learn?"  
  
"Not...to...hide...behind....Spike!" Tara laughs.  
  
Spike leans over Tara and the two of you peer down at her. "Hey, now!" he says indignantly. "You bait the tiger, you pay the consequences. Thought I taught you that one already, pet."  
  
Tara's head thrashes to the side and she calls out for help from Josh and Olson. No help from that corner, though. Josh has gotten the camera out.  
  
"I'm...going....to PEE!" Tara cries out through her laughter.  
  
You pull away so fast that you almost fall from the sofa; it's only Spike's arm at your waist, hauling you up, that keeps it from happening. He drops you on his other side and then grins down at Tara. She's down to giggling now. Spike reaches out and brushes the tears from her face, and she plants a kiss on the palm of his hand.  
  
"You alright?" he asks. She nods and Spike arches a brow. "Gonna charge for the peep show?"  
  
Tara frowns, not knowing what he's talking about. You snort and reach around him to yank Tara's skirt back down from where it had ridden up to the top of her thighs.  
  
"Pink panties, Ta? What are you, three?" Josh snickers. He comes over and holds out a little Polaroid from his I-Zone camera.  
  
In his other hand is a digital camera. Spike gets to the digital camera before you, and growls at Josh, who looks abashed. Which he damn well should. The last time he used the digital camera, he posted pictures on the Internet and you had some little dork following you around for three weeks.  
  
Tara frowns at him in disapproval, and then takes the mini-Polaroid from him. Her eyebrows rise. "Yep, that's a peep show," she sighs, offering it to you and Spike to view.  
  
Your first thought is that you're damn glad Spike got the camera from Josh, because the picture you're looking at seems kinky to your sex-a-rific eye. You're face down on Spike's lap, your breasts on the other side of his thighs, one leg bent at the knee. His elbow is resting on your ass, and he's peering down at the two of you with his lips twisted. You know that twist of his lips--it means he's more amused than he really wants to be, and is trying to play it cool. But in the picture, it looks like he's all smug about the lapful of women he's got.  
  
Tara's skirt is around her waist. One leg is hidden between you and the couch, but the other is raised. She was kicking at your back, but it looks like she's about to wrap the leg around your waist. Not to mention the fact that the way her head is tossed back, hair tangled and face red, with the moment of laughter frozen, makes it seems like your hand is someplace other than at her ribs.  
  
Your hands are not in the picture at all, and it looks way sexual. There's just your cocky smile and tussled hair on view. And, hey, you've got some nice cleavage showing.  
  
"We should send that to Rupert," Spike says, snagging the photo from Tara. "See if we can give him a heart attack from several continents away."  
  
You smack the back of his head. "Or send it to Angel and see how long it takes him to hunt you down like a dog and stake your sorry ass," you retort.  
  
"And on that note," Olson says wryly. "We'll be heading out."  
  
"What about my camera?" Josh says irritably.  
  
Spike sends him a cold look. "Have your sugar daddy buy you another one."  
  
Josh rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest. "Hey, Mr. Grab and Smash? Why don't you just erase the pictures and then give it back to me?"  
  
"Because he doesn't know how," Tara answers, smiling. "But I do. I'll take care of it tonight and bring it over to the shop tomorrow." She frowns worriedly. "You're still opening for me, right?"  
  
You look to Spike in confusion, and he mouths, "Tracey" at you. Oh. Wow. Tara really doesn't waste any time.  
  
"Yes, sweetie," Josh says, sounding very put upon. "I will be dragging my lovely ass out of bed well before I'm ready, just so you can have the morning off."  
  
He bends down and Tara obligingly gives him a kiss goodbye, her lips making an exaggerated smacking sound against his cheek.  
  
His eyes twinkling, Josh offers his cheek to Spike, who shifts to his game face and growls at him. But it takes a lot to discourage Josh, and he just chuckles and waves at you. "We left that address on the desk for you."  
  
"Call before you go there," Olson says firmly. "And again when you're done. If you need assistance--"  
  
"It's not my first damn time doing something like this," you say irritably. "I know the drill."  
  
Olson's lips press together. "You know it, yes," he agrees tightly. "But you don't always adhere to it."  
  
You look away from him. "I'll call, all right?"  
  
"Good. Be safe."  
  
He and Josh leave, and Tara gets up and starts cleaning up the popcorn. Spike helps her out, and you gather up empty soda cans, water bottles and dishes to bring into the kitchen. It doesn't take long for the living room to be put right again, and then Tara makes her way upstairs to bed. With working and going to school, she has to keep regular hours.  
  
You're rummaging through the Video Mania bag when Spike heads for the door. "Going for a smoke?" you ask.  
  
He looks at you coolly. Shit. Things didn't just return to "fine". You thought they did, because Spike seemed like his usual self during the movie and popcorn fight. But you sometimes forget that Spike looks out for Tara more than just physically. Which makes sense, because he spent a lot of time protecting her from her own mind, from her own guilt, from her own confusion. Nowadays, with Tara finally settled normally, Spike protects her from the way you and he chafe against each other.  
  
"I'll be at my place," he says curtly. "Let me know when you go on another round, and I'll come over and stay with her."  
  
With that, he's out the door and gone. You toss the bag to the floor and curse under your breath.  
  


* * *

  
10:30 PM – 12:00 AM  
  
You last half an hour before the apartment starts closing in on you. Upstairs, you take a quick shower that's simply you rinsing your body free of popcorn, then don a dark gray short-sleeved shirt that gives you some extra-nice cleavage and that'll match your new coat. You wipe off the useless kohl and paint on the liquid eyeliner. A slightly darker shade of colors for your eye shadow and lipstick--applied right over the lighter colors--and you're ready.  
  
You creep down the hall to open Tara's door. She's sleeping, and you watch her for a few minutes before you're convinced that she's sleeping peacefully.  
  
When Tara first moved in, she used to have some fucking nasty nightmares. They scared the crap out of you, because they didn't end when Tara woke up. She used to stare around wildly, desperately, like everything she was afraid of had the power to slink out of the shadows and grab her. It was a feeling you knew all too well.  
  
And she used to lock her eyes on you and refuse to look away. Because you were the thing she used to remind herself that she was awake and not still in the middle of a nightmare. There was a routine that emerged, eventually, and it involved you forcing her to realize that she was well and truly awake a lot faster than she did it on her own. A few questions, some casual commentary, and a lot of staying within Tara's view.  
  
But what Tara doesn't know is that you always knew when she was going to wake up screaming like something was trying to kill her. You used to go into her room and watch her sleep, and you discovered there were telltale signs. She slept restlessly when the dreams came, and whimpered in her sleep. Waking her was impossible, though. And you know because you tried really hard to wake her so that she could get away from it without the screaming and the fear that followed her into reality.  
  
If Tara's sleeping and you plan on going out, you always check on her first. It's been a while since she's had one--since right after Spike came back, to be exact--but your skin crawls when you imagine her screaming herself awake and being all alone.  
  
You grab the coat on the way out, stash Butters' address in your pocket, and then make your way to the side of the building. Olson bought the damn thing a few weeks after Tara moved in. That's because you were about to be forcibly evicted due to all the damage that was consistently being wrought on the apartment and the courtyard. It wasn't all your fault; the history of damage spanned back to Giles' days living here.  
  
Sure, you could have gotten another apartment, but you really like this one. It feels like yours, even considering the previous occupants. It's the first home you've had, and you didn't want to give it up. You bitched to Josh and Olson about it, and the next thing you knew, Olson was a property owner.  
  
He manages all the details, and lets Josh handle pretty much everything to do with the Magic Box. It works out well.  
  
You get to the apartment at the side of the building, and climb down the three steps that lead to it. It's a below ground level apartment, and it used to house the asshole superintendent that the former owners hired. Olson let him go, and has someone from across town on retainer.  
  
When Spike decided to stay in Sunnydale after the soul, Olson offered him the place. Spike refused for a long while. Finally, Tara told him that if a crypt was a fine place to live, then she would just move on in with him. There was a long staring contest, the likes of which Spike and Tara have often, and which you and Josh have dubbed Battles of Stubbornness.  
  
Josh doesn't think Tara would have actually done it, but you know better. You remember the bite mark on her wrist from when she forced Spike to feed from her when she found him beaten and bruised in New Orleans. She damn well would have shuffled herself over to Spike's latest crypt--lack of water, electricity, heat and air-conditioning be damned.  
  
So he moved into the spacious apartment, and Dawn came to town for a weekend and she and Tara helped him decorate it and get him everything he needed. The money, you suspect, came from Olson. That's where all the money comes from. He's got more than he knows what to do with.  
  
You rap at Spike's door and he opens it a moment later, taking a look at you and twisting his lips. He closes the door behind him and follows you up the stairs. You part ways in the courtyard and then you start out for the Bronze.  
  
You don't know what the hell it is with you and Spike. All right, so maybe you do. He doesn't let you get away with shit the way the others do. He calls you on the carpet for being a bitch, rather than just let it work itself out of your system. What you don't know is why he does it, or why it gets him so angry when it just makes Tara a little annoyed.  
  
Anyone else, you'd push for an explanation. But...hell. Spike has a habit of shoving truths down people's throats, whether or not they want to, or are ready to, hear them. So maybe, just possibly, you're avoiding hearing some personal truths. You frown as you wonder just how long it'll be until he does it anyway, before he stops waiting for you to ask and just assaults you with things you already know but won't acknowledge.  
  
And, yeah, you really need the Bronze tonight. The place is plenty busy, even for a Tuesday night. You prefer coming here on the weeknights, because there are more college aged people packing the joint. Hitting on some hottie and then finding out he's fifteen is not an experience you want to have again.  
  
You get a glimpse of shiny black hair, exotic eyes, slender female figure. Hm. That would be the chick who was trying for Tara before Tracey came along. She doesn't give you any creepy vibes, never has. Maybe you need to start dragging Tara here again.  
  
A quick glance and tête-à-tête (that came across your calendar just four days ago, and you're still not sure how to pronounce it) with your gut alerts you to two vampires. You're not going to go for them right now, but you're not going to let them pull their usual lure-and-snack crap either. Taking a deep breath, you tune yourself in to them, draw their location on your skin so that you won't get distracted from them.  
  
Sometimes you feel good about everything. Tonight is not one of those nights. Spike's driven it home, yet again, that you aren't pulling this off as smoothly as you like to tell yourself you are. Your natural defense mechanisms kick in on the bad nights. You revert to type the only way you can, and that's with a nice, quick, mind-clearing fuck. There's really no place better than the Bronze to find one in Sunnydale.  
  
You don't go by appearances so much as you go by the eyes. You look for someone who's out for the same exact thing you are. But you're not one to just stand around and wait for some shmuck to offer to buy you a drink. And, really, the best way to find who you want is on the dance floor.  
  
The music at the Bronze runs the gamut, and tonight it's more your kind than it usually is. Yeah, okay, so the pretty-girl voice really isn't your thing, but the drums and frantic guitar are, so you toss yourself into the mass of bodies and just let go. It's different than what happens during Slaying. This is you letting it out with the tossing of your head, and the movement of your torso. It's you reclaiming something that you're more than sure of than anything else, even your Slayerness—control.  
  
You're in charge, and not one doubts it. They slink off when you arch a disinterested brow. They sandwich you in between them when you give them a smile. They wait for you right where you tell them to when you see vamp number one about to slip out with a victim. It's a quick little brush against him as you squeeze past the two of them in the tight hall that leads to the back door. Then the girl is blinking at you in shock as the dust falls.  
  
"Do yourself a favor and check for a pulse next time," you mutter, then dance back to where they're waiting for you.  
  
You change your mind and take a detour to the booth where vamp number two is sitting. He's alone at the moment and you climb in next to him, *that* smile on your face, and he smirks at you. Moron. You move closer and closer to him until he's practically lying down on the bench seat, and you shake off the dust as you get up.  
  
Four songs later you feel like you're you again, and you grab the hand of the guy you picked out two songs ago. He told you his name but all you could hear above the music was a St sound at the beginning. Doesn't matter, the name, because he signs the register at the motel "Mr. Smith".  
  
The middle-aged clerk knows you back from when you lived there, and you toss him a grin. Sammy's good people for the most part, and you try to always swing by midway through your Thursday patrol because he leaves before dawn on Thursdays and sometimes the vamps get stupid ideas in their heads.  
  
Sammy snickers when—Steve?—pays for two hours. Yeah, Sammy's got you down, and he knows you won't be in there nearly that long, but he takes the money anyway. Practical guy.  
  
"Catch you later, Sammy," you say as you lead—Stan?—away by his fly.  
  
"Play safe," he calls back.  
  
Once the two of you get into the room—and Sammy's really a fuck, because he gave you your old room—you're even keel is slightly off balance again. Fuck.  
  
You kiss—Stu?—and it's a battle of tongues that you win. You strip your jacket off in victory and toss it to a chair. You shove him to the bed and gab for his belt. He gives you a patronizing look when you lower your head. That's because he's a man, and he doesn't get it. You're a natural top, and you're a good one, at that. This is usually a submissive thing, but not always.  
  
It's *your* teeth that can clench and make them cry out. It's *your* tongue that can make their backs arch off the bed. *Your* finger, pressed just right, that can tear a strangled scream from their throats.  
  
It's not about their pleasure, and that's why it's not a submissive thing. It's about you, having them at your mercy.  
  
You make SteveStanStu cry out and arch and scream, but nothing else.  
  
The condom is in your bra. You've always kept them there, because your mother used to go through your pockets. Habit kind of stuck. You tear it open and roll it on down, then hold a hand to his chest and slight right on home. And, fuck, it's nice. Got you tingling all over, and when you're tingling you're not thinking.  
  
His eyes are glassy and lost in pleasure and there's nothing for him but you. And you feel wild and primal, and you think he might wind up with some interesting bruises, but you don't think he much cares right now, and you won't care ever.  
  
You stare down at SteveStanStu and he's looking a you like you're something holy, and he keeps staring at you that way for minutes or hours until you're both done, and you're both panting.  
  
You slide off of him, and you're both lying there side by side. He offers you a post-fuck cig, and you take him up on it, grabbing another for later. You stare at the door to the bathroom and your mind goes places it shouldn't.  
  
Angel lost his soul because he loved Buffy so damn much. In a way, Spike got his soul because of the way loving Buffy changed him. You feel like nothing--like something entirely insignificant--in comparison. Your own mother didn't even love you more than anything else, and that's, like, the definition of a good mother.  
  
SteveStanStu suddenly rolls off the bed and gets to his feet. When you bother looking up, you see him buttoning his pants, eyeing you like he's got your number. Like you're so easy to figure out. You ignore him and shove your breasts back inside the cups of your bra, then lean down and start putting your clothes back on.  
  
SteveStanStu goes into the bathroom as you're yanking your jeans on, and comes back with a stack of towels. Little thief. Outside the motel, he gives you an asshole smile and shithead eyes, and says, "I'll see you at the Bronze again."  
  
No soft looks and pretty words for you. That's how you used to like it. Business. An exchange of scratching to relieve itches. For some reason, that thought makes you take a real look at SteveStanStu, and you feel your eyes get wide and wild before you spin away and almost run down the street.  
  
He's tall. He's got dark brown hair. He's got deep brown eyes. Just like the three guys before him. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Your subconscious isn't very subtle, but then again, you can be pretty oblivious when it suits you, so maybe it has to be obvious. But, damn, you really could have done without knowing.  
  
You finally realize that you're still moving, and you come to a stop, looking up in surprise at the gates in front of you. You also could have done without coming *here*, and you want to leave, but your body doesn't seem to be listening to the way you're yelling at it.  
  
Whenever Dawn's in town she, Tara and Spike always come here together during the evening, and Dawn comes by herself once during the day. You don't get it--don't get how the three of them can put themselves through it and come back to the apartment smiling.  
  
Graves are for the living, but you've never much seen the point to visiting them. You tried, not long after you first got back, but standing six feet above Buffy's corpse didn't do anything for you, and all looking at her headstone did was remind you just how short your life expectancy is.  
  
Maybe some people visit to remember, but you remember just fine without it. So you're not sure why you're walking into the cemetery, but you do know where you're going. You stop a respectful distance in front of the headstone, then shrug and walk right up to it, sit down, and lean your back against it.  
  
The cigarette you got from SteveStanStu is in your pocket and you pull it out, break it off somewhere in the middle where it got bent, and light up.  
  
"I hated you."  
  
You jerk in surprise at the words, almost looking around, then realize they came from *your* mouth. This isn't you. This is some kind of After Lifetime True Story movie-of-the-week moment. But you can't seem to stop.  
  
"I hated you for trying," you spit. "And I hated you even more when you stopped trying."  
  
And that's so fucking true that you have to close your eyes for a moment. Angel refused to stop trying, no matter what the fuck you did, and once he finally got through to you, you discovered a seething hatred of everyone who had given up on you. You spent many an hour in jail wondering just what your life would have been like if someone before Angel had refused to give up.  
  
You smoke silently, and when the cig is done you toss it aside carelessly and tangle your hands in your hair. A string of curses is muttered, whisper soft.  
  
"I feel like a fucking idiot," you hiss, and there's no response. You lift your head and frown. No answers, no arguments, no expectations. Okay. So, yeah, you're starting to see the appeal.  
  
"I hated you, but then I got it. There was only so much you could take of me when you had your own shit going on." You pull at some grass by your hip and narrow your eyes. "I only wrote one letter in jail, and it was to Angel. But I wanted to write you. Then I figured I'd get to tell you in person one day."  
  
You lift a shoulder. "Okay, no, I didn't think that. It's more like I figured I could repay you." Your head tilts to your side as you consider just who you're sitting above. "Maybe save your life. And you'd understand what I meant with it."  
  
You get to your feet, not sure what exactly you should be feeling right now, but there's a lightness somewhere deep inside that used to be heavy. You eye the headstone and sigh.  
  
"So, yeah. Thanks for trying, Xander."  
  
You turn away and wander through the cemetery. Your life is a lot sadder than you realized if you've been fucking Xander stand-ins. Not because of the Xander part; he was a stand up guy.  
  
Not because of the stand-in part, either. You've used the time honored tradition of stand-ins before, especially right after you got here and the specter of Buffy was practically choking you. There's no shortage of small blonde girls in this Southern California town, and you got to know half a dozen of them intimately.  
  
So, really, it's not the fact that you've been fucking Xanders. Screwing all those Buffys helped you exorcize her, or some shit like that. No, what bothers you about the Xanders is that it wasn't a conscious decision on your part. Getting bouncy is *supposed* to be about forgetting shit for a while, but you've apparently been trying to get some of what you wouldn't take from Xander.  
  
Right. Just a year-and-a-half and a live body too short. Your timing always did suck.  
  


* * *

  
12:00 AM - 1:30 AM  
  
You've got Stanley Butters to visit still, and you figure it's maybe time to pop on over. Focus on some work instead of your own head for a while. You cut through the cemetery and hike over the half-wall along the south side. It's only about ten blocks away, and you make it there before you know it.  
  
Three houses down, you see a man come out of the house whose address is written on the paper in your hand. Down beneath the address is a quickly jotted down description of Stanley, and, yeah, it matches. He's short and thin-boned, like a hard wind will tumble him down the street, and he's balding. The glasses are too big for his thin face, and they keep slipping down his nose.  
  
You scoot to the side, and try to decide between confronting him now, or letting him go so that you can poke around inside his house. But then you see his left hand. Actually, you see what's *in* his left hand and you shove the paper back in your jeans pocket.  
  
You reach him as he's unlocking his car. Spin him around and slam him against the side of the vehicle. He's shorter than you are. A lot shorter. You glare down at him and then pry the Orb of Thessulah out of his hand and shove it into your coat pocket--and, damn, the pockets are nice and roomy. Bonus.  
  
"So," you say casually. "What exactly were you planning on doing with that?"  
  
"You're hurting me," he cries out.  
  
You roll your eyes and grab a hold of his coat and slam him back against the car again. "That would be the point. Hurting you. A lot worse, if you don't give me an answer."  
  
His glasses are slipping down his face, and you get a look at his eyes. Desolate. Tear-filled. "Give it back," he whispers. "I need it."  
  
"Why?" Another slam against the car when he doesn't answer right away, but it doesn't get him talking. "Fine. We can go back to the hurting."  
  
His body starts shaking when you slip the knife into view, and it takes everything in you not to drop it and run away in a panic. This is not like it used to be. You are not like you used to be. And the nausea you're feeling is proof of that.  
  
The blade comes to rest against his throat and you look him up and down. "Don't seem like a champion mojo-maker. Do you even know what the orb is for?"  
  
"Yes, and I need it. You don't understand..."  
  
No, you don't, and that's the goddamn point. "Right. You've got a really important reason to trap some poor soul's...well, soul," you finish awkwardly. "Let's have it."  
  
"Not trap," Stanley corrects you, a fanatical light coming to his pale green eyes. "Transport. You have to let me go."  
  
You frown and press the knife harder against his throat, just a shade more pressure and you'll be drawing blood. "Talk, and make it good."  
  
"I need it for Gina," he says earnestly. "For my Gina."  
  
And he collapses back against the car, the earnestness gone and replaced with...loss. You don't know how else to describe the look, and you don't really know how to handle it, either. This kind of thing is Tara's territory. The understanding and shit.  
  
"Why does Gina need it?" you ask cautiously.  
  
But Stanley shakes his head. "I...you...I'll show you. And then you'll see. And you'll understand why."  
  
He's broken. You know the signs. Broken people do desperate things. Really desperate things. You would know, wouldn't you? Just like you know that normal people can't even begin to fathom or guess at what the hell they might be. You've got a really bad feeling about Stanley's Gina. He's not going to be able to tell you, only show you. And unless you let him, you won't ever figure it out--you're not broken anymore, even if you're not entirely whole.  
  
The knife moves away from his neck, and you nod slowly. "Show me." He tries to get in his car, and you shake your head. "Gimme the keys."  
  
There are some bungee cords in the trunk and you bind his hands behind him, then wrap the slack around his torso so that his arms are pinned to his side. He's gone into some kind of shock or something, and you get him into the passenger seat easily enough.  
  
After you start the car and pull out onto the street you look at him. He's about as close to huddled as he can get, what with the way you've got him trussed. His voice is flat and dead when he gives you the first direction-- make a right at the stop sign--and you decide against pushing him to just give you the destination. It's probably easier on him to take it in small steps, and if you can keep him somewhat in his head, you'll have a better chance of sorting this out.  
  
There's a nagging, sickening, clenching of your stomach when he tells you to turn right on Amelia St.  
  
You can see it in the distance. The blocky structure. The bright entrance signs. No. No. And, no.  
  
"You need to bear--"  
  
Yes. Yes. And, yes. Fuck.  
  
"To the right," you whisper, mouth dry. "I know."  
  
Your hands are white around the knuckles as you steer the car towards that building, and pull into the parking lot. You jerk into a parking spot so suddenly that Stanley tips to the side. You turn off the car and just stare at the hospital.  
  
You want to give Stanley the orb and walk away. You want to crush the orb and snap Stanley's neck. You want to curl into a ball and spend a while shaking like a loser. Basically, you don't know what the fuck you want to do.  
  
Without turning away from the hospital, you take out the knife and cut the bungee around his torso. "Try anything and you'll die," you tell him. "Let's go."  
  
There are vague, almost shapeless explanations in your head for why Stanley has brought you here, and you swallow thickly and wrap your arms around your waist. What you wouldn't give for Tara right about now. Tara at your side, forcing your arms away from your body so that she can hold your hand. And Spike. Spike at your back, ready to kick you in the ass if you start to falter. Fuck.  
  
Inside, the bile climbs up your throat the instant you inhale. It doesn't matter that you're breathing through your mouth now; you've already smelled it. Hospital. It's like acid in your throat.  
  
You follow Stanley like a zombie to the elevator, and when it starts to move he looks at the floor and says, "You're the Slayer, aren't you?"  
  
It startles you, and you spin towards him. He lifts his eyes and turns that stare on you.  
  
"I heard about you. When I was looking for..." He gestures in the general direction of your pocket. "Heard about a lot of things," he finishes softly.  
  
No doubt. You have no idea where he got the orb, but you figure he had to have hit the demon underground because the Magic Box is the only legitimate place to get one in Sunnydale.  
  
The elevator stops and he doesn't move. You hold the doors open and almost change your mind and let them close when you see the sign. It's the goddamn children's ward. Fuck fuck fuck. Stanley rouses himself finally and stumbles past you, and the two of you walk down the longest hallway ever. Seems like it takes fifteen minutes to get to the end, and during the trip you remember just how much fun life has gutting you every chance it gets. So you're not surprised when you see the little girl on the bed, and hear Stanley telling you that she's in a coma.  
  
She's behind a glass wall, and she's all alone; none of the beds on either side of her are occupied. There are all sorts of tubes going in and out of her, some with bags at the end, others with beeping machines.  
  
Her brown hair is limp and oily against the white of her pillow. Her skin is pale, so very pale. Not much sun in there for her to soak up. None at all, really. She's got Stanley's bone structure, all thin bird-like bones, but they look pretty on her. Delicate.  
  
Your throat is like sandpaper and it hurts to talk. "What...what happened to her?"  
  
Stanley touches a hand to the glass, and you turn away from Gina to look at him. Someone's home again. Someone who remembers that he didn't used to be broken. "Car accident. Diane--my wife--she died. Gina's been like this ever since. I want my little girl back, not trapped somewhere alone and scared."  
  
You finger the orb through the soft leather of your coat. "She's not," you breathe. "She's just...it's like sleeping, before the dreams come."  
  
He looks at you. "How do you know that?"  
  
"Eight months. That's how long it was for me. Woke up and didn't even know I'd been in one."  
  
His gaze goes to Gina again. "Could you hear people? They say she can..."  
  
You shrug. "Dunno. Wasn't anyone around to talk to me. But if they had...it would have gotten through."  
  
That's just bullshit. You don't know or believe any such thing. A part of you is well aware that your opinion might be a protective one--it doesn't matter that there was no one to talk to you, because you wouldn't have heard it anyway.  
  
You don't remember much from those months; it really was like that empty sleep that precedes dreams. Though, you actually did have a couple of dreams, which you've decided were Slayer dreams that couldn't be avoided even in a coma. It was nothingness, but it was only frightening after you got out.  
  
You woke up in some hidden away room, cuffed to the bed like the fugitive you were, and it felt like a day or a century had passed. And, oh god, you were so fucking cold that your teeth chattered for hours, enamel clacking against enamel in tune to the beat of your frantic heartbeat. And tired-- you would have slept for a week straight if you hadn't been all turned around.  
  
Your fingers leave the orb and you watch the tears spill down Stanley's face. Crying could be bad or good. You've yet to figure out the subtleties of it. He rests his forehead against the glass and takes in a shuddering breath.  
  
"I miss them both so much. It should have been me. Not them."  
  
Survivor's guilt. You and Tara have talked about it because she's been through it. It's a bitch. You felt it yourself when you found out Wilkins was dead when you woke up. And, hey, you've just noticed that he also gets last name only treatment. Damn.  
  
"It's not up to you," you tell him. "All you can do is talk to her. Let her hear you. Be here when she wakes up."  
  
"They don't think she's going to," he chokes out. "It's been over a year and she hasn't changed. Nothing's changed."  
  
"You talk to her," you say again. "And you let her go if you have to. When you can."  
  
He breaks down, and there's nothing you can do for him except fix what he's already done and keep him from doing anything else. The rest...it's all on him to deal with himself. The two of you move to the chairs a few feet away and sit down. There's a newspaper on the seat next to you, and the headline catches your eye. Stanley doesn't notice it, but your eyes stay planted firmly on it as you ask him, "How old is Gina?"  
  
"She'll be six next month."  
  
You've been torn by two conflicting reactions before, but never like you are right this second. On the one hand, you get it. You get it to the point that you think it's right. On the other hand, you're so fucking angry and disgusted that you have to clench your hands into fists to keep from tearing Stanley's head off his shoulders.  
  
Neither of those options are viable (from the Latin, vita, meaning life and word of the day three months from now--sometimes you read ahead), and you don't know what the fuck to do. It's such a bad idea, the one you know Stanley has come up with. So fucking bad. He knows it too, because he's not a bastard, just a man who's lost too fucking much.  
  
Angel got through to you because he understood where you were coming from. You understand where Stanley's coming from, but you don't really have any experiences you can bring up to demonstrate it. Plus, it's not about Stanley. It's about Gina. That? Yeah, you've got experiences you can bring up. But they don't really translate well since Gina's an innocent girl, and you were, uh, not an innocent girl.  
  
Well, then. You'll just have to make some shit up, won't you? You're pretty good at that.  
  
You start off with, "I was angry when I woke up. And I did something...creepy. And really stupid. And did I mention creepy already? Because it was." He's not really paying attention to you, so you'll have to drop the bomb now. Screw the lead up. "I switched bodies with someone."  
  
His head snaps around and he's gaping at you, his eyes wide and panicked because you've caught on to what he's up to.  
  
"But who I was?" you continue. "It wasn't just in my soul, or my memories. It was in my body too. Scars I have. The way my eyes droop a little. Texture of my hair. Shape of my hands. I didn't realize that until then. Bodies aren't just packages, you know? Not just shells."  
  
Stanley looks down again, and you glance at the headline. *Six Year Old Julie Thompson Missing*  
  
"Gina's going to be confused, and she'll go insane," you state plainly, glad to see Stanley flinch. "And Julie's parents are going to spend the rest of their lives the way you are now. And somehow I don't think Diane will look down and be pleased about any of it."  
  
"Oh, god," Stanley whispers, the realization of the consequences settling on his face, leaving him horrified and pretty damn freaked out. "What have I done?"  
  
You suck in a breath. Okay, yeah, so there goes the hope that he hadn't actually gotten around to doing anything yet. "Where is she? Where's Julie?" you ask sharply.  
  
Stanley lets out a tremulous breath. "She's at my house."  
  
You get to your feet. "Let's go."  
  
You're determined on your way out, and Stanley is still horrified as he trails after you.  
  
"I'm a monster," he whispers when you get into the car. He's not tied up again because the bungee is useless, and you don't really think it's necessary any longer.  
  
"You're not a monster," you refute and start the car. "You just love too hard. It's not a crime."  
  
"Kidnapping is."  
  
Yeah, so it is. You back out of the spot and point the car in the direction of the parking lot's exit. You've apparently unleashed something in Stanley, because he's talking now.  
  
"She never saw me. She was playing in her backyard. Alone. I read the words and I had the orb in my hand. Then I just walked up behind her and touched her back. She *crumpled*."  
  
You can't listen to this. If he goes on much longer you're going to run out of your very limited store of understanding. "Stop talking," you snap. "Just be quiet."  
  
He doesn't say another word during the drive, and then you're both walking up the porch steps. His hands are shaking when he unlocks the front door and flips on a light. The interior of the house is like an advertisement for Martha Stewart Living. And you aren't going to think about how you know about Martha Stewart. But you do, and it does.  
  
In the living room, you see the cute black-haired girl lying on the sofa. Julie doesn't look anything like Gina; Stanley was probably more concerned with getting the age right, rather than appearance.  
  
She could be sleeping, but there's...an absence in her body. Even when Spike goes all creepy still there's still a sense of...something. Life of some sort. And it's missing in Julie. There's no sense of anything coming from her body. She might as well be dead.  
  
Stanley picks up a piece of paper from the coffee table and holds out his hand for the orb. Yeah, right. You arch a brow and hold out your own hand. "I'll do it."  
  
He reluctantly hands it over. There are three separate paragraphs, each with their own heading. It looks like Latin. You don't understand more than the odd word, but you could speak it and be understood. Much to your dismay, you've actually picked up a few things during your tenure on the Hellmouth, and correct Latin pronunciation is one of them.  
  
But, three paragraphs. One to remove a soul and store it in the orb, one to remove a soul to the ether, and one to put a soul into a body? Seems like a good guess, but you're not leaving Julie's soul in the hands of your guess. Your cell has a camera in it. Even though you and the others are all on the same plan, yours is the only one that has that nifty feature. That's because your phone got crushed to bits by a Y'Fow demon last week, and when you went to get it replaced, you found out they stopped making your old model. Tara's supposed to get everyone else upgraded next week.  
  
You snap a picture of the paper and email it to Olson's home computer, then hit the two button combo for his apartment. Josh answers, sounding entirely wide-awake. "I emailed you a picture. I need Olson to do a quick and dirty translation."  
  
He groans. "Any cue at all what obscure demon language it might be?"  
  
"Latin."  
  
"Oh. That'll be quick, then. He'll call when he's got something done."  
  
You hang up without saying goodbye, and Olson calls back before you can clip the phone to your belt again. "I'm assuming you're with Mr. Butters?" he says archly. "You were supposed to call."  
  
"Yell at me later," you mumble. "Translate now."  
  
"No need. Josh researched various ways the orb could be used earlier today, so we already have information on this particular set of spells."  
  
That makes things a whole lot easier. "What do they do?"  
  
He confirms what you already guessed, and you find out that the third paragraph is the one that will send Julie's soul back into her body.  
  
"What is the situation with Butters?" Olson asks when he's done explaining.  
  
"I'll let you know once I do."  
  
You hang up, not quite sure why you didn't tell Olson about everything, and with the nagging suspicion that you're not going to. Stanley eyes are focusing anywhere but at Julie, and he's got a look about him that you think you recognize. He looks like you felt when you finally shattered to pieces in an alley in Los Angeles. It's a sucky thing, shattering like that. But it's the only way a person can put himself back together again.  
  
There's a small pad and a pen on the end table next to the couch. You might be about to do a really stupid or a really good thing. You're not sure that it matters which it is, because you don't think there's really anything else that you can do. Or, actually, anything else that you're willing to do.  
  
You scribble down a name and address and then you approach Stanley. He's sitting on the loveseat, head in his hands, and you offer him the address, which he takes with confusion.  
  
"Raymond White?" he reads.  
  
"He's a psychiatrist," you tell him. "Knows all about those things you found out about, too. So, you know, he won't toss you in a padded cell when you talk about them."  
  
Stanley studies you carefully. "I don't understand. They said you'd kill me if you found out."  
  
You sigh heavily. "You're in a bad place, and you need help. I'm giving you a chance to get it." You narrow your eyes and point at him. "You only get one."  
  
He shakes his head and tries to give back the address. "I kidnapped--"  
  
"Look," you interrupt impatiently. "She didn't see you and she's not aware of anything right now. Go see White. Stay out of trouble. I'll know if you fuck up."  
  
Stanley finally nods, shock settling in, and you go the couch and lift Julie in your arms. "Now, where does she live?"  
  
"Three blocks over on Sienna. Four twenty-one."  
  
Stanley walks you to the door and opens it. Before you step outside, he catches your eyes with his. "Thank you. I don't know why you're doing it, but I won't...I won't mess up."  
  
You nod. "Good. And you'll go see White, too. That's not negotiable."  
  
"I will." He looks down at Julie and flinches. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "So very sorry."  
  
You traipse through backyards instead of the streets, Stanley Butters left behind to try to make some sense of his life again. You hope he does.  
  
At four twenty-one Sienna, the lights are all on. You can tell even from the backyard. You drop to your knees at the steps leading up the back porch and lay Julie carefully on the soft grass. Keeping one eye on the house, you move Julie onto her stomach, and then you take out the orb and the paper with the spells on it.  
  
You're whispering, and you're speaking the words slowly, like each one is its own sentence, but you're pronouncing everything right and when you say the last word, the orb flares brightly.  
  
It's Julie's soul. It's Julie. You lift the orb to your face and peer at it. It's beautiful, which is strange because it really doesn't *look* like anything more than a bit of light. But there's weight to it. Substance. And there's depth to it. Layers.  
  
It's this little bit of substantially layered light that makes all the difference for Angel and Spike, in entirely different ways.  
  
"Hey, Jules," you say quietly. "Time to go home."  
  
You change position so that you're crouching next to her, and you have your escape route in sight. With a deep breath, you touch the back of her neck. Her soul drifts out of the orb, crawls down your hand and spreads over Julie like a second skin. It sits there for a moment, on top of her, and then its like it just sinks into her. You bolt.  
  
From the shadows, you watch her sit up and stare around the yard in confusion and then fear. She scrambles up the steps to the back door. It's locked, and she starts crying, feet and hands batting at the barrier.  
  
You watch her father open it and almost fall down in relief, tears running unabashedly down his face when he sees his little girl. He jerks her into his arms, holding her like he's never going to let her go ever again, and he trips inside, calling out to his wife.  
  
You wander away, feeling melancholy for no reason you can understand. It's a good thing you've done. For Stanley and Gina; for the Thompsons and Julie. Maybe the melancholy is because you know it might not stay good. That Stanley might lose his mind entirely. That Julie might be irrevocably fucked up for life. That Gina might spend twenty years in that hospital bed.  
  
Everything is only fleetingly easy, and everyone can be okay for that moment without even trying. It's the after that's hard. It's in the after that things go to shit for real.  
  
Patrolling isn't really appealing right now. You want to do something that might actually keep things good longer than just tonight for Stanley and the others. So you pick up your pace to a quick jog and head over to Willie's.  
  
The conversation in the bar comes to an abrupt stop when you walk in. That's a little unusual. Most of the time you storm in and the energy level skyrockets as the demonic customers get ready for a fight, should they be the lucky one chosen to pummel information out of.  
  
But you're moving slowly and deliberately, and they know that they'll get death, not a fight, if you turn your attention on them. So does Willie, and he hurries up to you, already fretting.  
  
"I just repaired the damage from your last visit," he whines. "Maybe you could take care of business outside?"  
  
You glare down at him, and he starts to twitch. "Human guy," you say flatly. "He was looking for an Orb of Thessulah. What do you know about him?"  
  
Willie blinks. "Yeah, I heard about him. Don't know his name, though. He wasn't giving it out. Everyone just called him Rube. I don't know if anyone helped him. I swear!"  
  
That doesn't matter. That's not why you're here. The far wall catches your eye. Looks like Willie made another change when he patched the place up. He scurries along at your side as you go to the whiteboard. "Blooming Onions!" "Goat Spleens!" "Taqoep Eggs!" "Ask about our daily blood type!"  
  
Interesting...in a way that's really fucking creepy.  
  
You clear away the colored words with quick swipes of the eraser that's on the tray along the bottom of the board. Willie watches you warily. You're way more unpredictable than Buffy ever was, and it's always put him off balance.  
  
The marker squeaks as you write, because you're pressing the felt tip so damn hard against the bright white surface, and if you keep on leaving messages everywhere, you're going to have to start carting around writing implements and poster board.  
  
"Spread the word--anyone who even thinks of talking to the Rube who was looking for an Orb of Thessulah will take a year to die. If they're lucky," Willie reads nervously, eyeing you with trepidation.  
  
"Make sure the non-English ones know the deal," you tell him. "I'm not bluffing or over exaggerating." You tilt your head to the side and pretend to consider it. "In fact, I'm probably under exaggerating."  
  
"Right," he says emphatically. "Rube is persona non grata. Totally of limits. Got it. So will everyone else."  
  
You scan the bar and eyes slide away from yours. Yeah. They get it. Good.  
  
"Got our order ready?" you ask Willie.  
  
He goes behind the bar and brings you a small brown paper bag. There are two pints of human blood inside. You guys keep it on hand in case Spike takes a beating and needs to heal faster than animal blood lets him. You weren't too keen on the idea of having it in your fridge, but the alternative is to inevitably watch Tara slice herself open and force her blood down his throat--no matter who tries to stop her.  
  
"Hope I don't see you soon," Willie calls out when you leave.  
  
No one ever wants to see you soon.  
  
You blow out a frustrated breath. So, yeah. It's a little strange, this helping without slaying. Not really what you're used to. Satisfying in a way, but not nearly as satisfying as beating the crap out of something.  
  
Also, you've had your fill of the past rearing its head tonight. Xander was bad enough. Revisiting your Coma Glory Days was a bit much. And you can't help but wonder...were you really shoveling shit at Stanley with your talk about bodies not just being shells? You thought so at the time, but it's starting to make sense. Question is, does it just make sense, or is it the truth about how you felt in Buffy's body?  
  
You stood in front of a mirror and exercised her face. You contorted it into expressions you'd never seen on her. You schooled it into your own expressions. You let it fall naturally into her expressions.  
  
The only reason things got all fucked up was because you were all fucked up. If you had just left town right away, Buffy and the others would never have been able to find you. Instead, you let Riley and your Slaying impulses confuse you. For the better, yeah, since one thing led to another and you finally got to that alley in Los Angeles. But if you were entirely sane. If there wasn't anything in you to be confused and broken about. Being in Buffy's body would have been fine.  
  
Wouldn't it have?  
  
You're standing right out front of Willie's, and you suddenly have to move. Move or have an embarrassing breakdown. You walk so fast you might as well be running, but you're not running because this isn't something you can run from.  
  
You told Stanley Butters something that was nakedly true. Strip away the bullshit, strip away the ability to avoid thinking about it, and that's what you're left with. Hard, cold, bare-assed truth. That there was something of Buffy in her body, in her shell, and you knew it. You felt the parts of her that were in her own scars, and her own hands, and her own hair. And you coveted them. At first because you wanted to destroy her entirely and to do that you had to carve them away from the inside.  
  
But then it wasn't about that anymore. You wanted those things for yourself, because they were what was missing. And you tried so damn hard, didn't you? Followed the pull of what was left of Buffy and fled the airport. Tried to trick the vestiges of Buffy into believing that you were really Buffy with your actions. They couldn't be fooled, though, even before you came face-to-face with yourself.  
  
It was about more than just walking around with a different perspective, and if she hadn't switched the two of you back, both of you would have been insane instead of just the one of you. Because the parts of you still in your body would have eventually driven Buffy over the edge, just as surely as her parts did the same to you--only it happened really fast for you because you didn't have all that far to go.  
  
You really wish you'd snagged more than just the one cig from the Xander stand-in, because you need some nicotine pretty damn badly now.  
  


* * *

  
1:30 AM - 3:30 AM  
  
You turn a corner and run smack into someone--no, some*thing's* chest. You jump back and look up, your face incredulous. It's the fucking Y'Fow demon that smashed your phone last week and *got away* when you were taking care of the rest of his buddies! Goddamn. And he's just as ugly as you remember, with his muddy green thick skin and pointy protrusions (alliteration, the word is cool and so is the meaning).  
  
There is one long moment that you both stand there and stare at each other like fools. Then he tries to run. You set the paper bag from Willie's on the ground and tackle him before he goes two steps. The fight is dirty. Violent. You beat him to a pulp--literally. He's bits and parts when you finally stumble back from the mess on the sidewalk and take in a deep breath.  
  
Just like with the coat, you know Giles would entirely disapprove of what you've just done. Olson, on the other hand, has subtly hinted at you from his first day in Sunnydale that you should do shit like this. Vent the anger, and the violence. Get it out on what deserves it so that it doesn't get misdirected. Lately, you don't need to do it much. In fact, the last time you did it was right after Tara came. Sure, you'll sometimes get a little gung-ho in the middle of a fight, but this is different.  
  
You think you'll always need to do this at least every once in a while. The anger in you...it'll probably never be gone. Ever. You spent too long being a victim to things that you couldn't stop. Alcoholism. Neglect. Your own mind. Maybe some day you'll stop and think about it and realize it's been years since you last took it out on some demon or other. But not anytime soon.  
  
You scrape the flesh and orange blood to the curb with your feet and leave them for the street cleaner to take care of. Sunnydale's got trucks that rival Boston's, with the brushes and the water and shit. Greeny won't be any trouble for them to handle since you've conveniently turned him into slush.  
  
The blood for Spike really needs to be refrigerated. Even though the last thing you want to do right now is go back to the apartment and see Spike, the first thing you want to do right now is go back to the apartment and see Tara. Hell, okay, yeah, even Spike. The two of them together somehow always manage to level you out. Things seem to have tilted the other way for you, and since you suddenly realize that at some point tonight you subconsciously decided to forego (that's a Giles word--one of his favorites when lecturing you) getting bouncy for a while, you really need some time with Spike and Tara.  
  
So if you go home and wake Tara, it's a sure bet that she and Spike will distract you without even trying. You figure it'll be pretty easy to convince Tara to put aside sleep for videos, and she'll only need to look at Spike and he'll stay, no matter how pissed he is at you.  
  
Time was, Spike was the one who distracted you. Actually, you distracted each other. Every once in a while it's still you and him. Generally at his place in deference to Tara's diurnal nature. But as rare as it was when he first got back, it's been even more rare the last two weeks. It was twice a week in the beginning, and recently it's been zero times. Spike has been pretty scarce lately all around, now that you think about it. Hasn't really joined you on routine patrols, but he was there last week to hunt down the Y'Fow demons. Hasn't been hanging around after he walks Tara home, either. You've seen ore more tonight than you have in the last week.  
  
Maybe he has things going on, but--no, fuck that. It's Spike. He doesn't have things going on because most of the demons in this town want to kill him on sight; the other half he tries to avoid because he's fucked them and Spike isn't much for going back for seconds. So, yeah, he's been avoiding you. You're okay with that for the most part, but you hope that won't be the case tonight.  
  
Your phone rings as you're picking up the blood from the ground. "Aw, shit," you groan, knowing it's Olson. Probably a pissed off Olson. It turns out to be the apartment phone number that shows up on your phone's display. Huh. "Yeah?"  
  
"Hey, it's me," Tara says.  
  
"What are you doing up?" you ask, staring to walk.  
  
"Olson called. About those spells. Um, he was supposed to call when you called him back. I figured you forgot."  
  
"Yeah, well, you figured right. Why'd he call you anyway?"  
  
"He said you were, you know, your usual informative self," she says with amusement. "He wanted to give me a heads up in case you needed help."  
  
"Nah, it's--well, I took care of it."  
  
Tara's always perceptive, even if she doesn't always make known all the little things she picks up on, and she's also lived with you for a while. That little slip up, the hitch in your voice, would have slid right on past anyone else. Well, except Spike, because he's also perceptive and he's also lived with you.  
  
"Hm," she murmurs.  
  
Spike gets pissed as all fuck when Tara does that Hm thing. You don't. You like it. It means she's picked up on most, if not all, of the nuances of what was and was not said. It also means she's not going to slam you with a million questions.  
  
"I'm heading home. Got the good shit from Willie's when I was in the area."  
  
You hear Spike in the background, then Tara tells him, "No, you can't continue watching...*that* here."  
  
Could be one of the horror movies, but you don't think so. It's most likely some Pay Per View porn because Spike gets a kick out of Tara's disapproval and annoyance when she has to pay the cable bill.  
  
"And pull up your zipper," she adds so sweetly that you have to snicker. Her pleased tone of voice when she talks to you again means she actually managed to turn the tables on Spike, which doesn't happen very often. "Well, I'm up and I see some more movies. Should I bring my blanket downstairs?"  
  
Late night movie watching is done with the lights out and Tara curled up on the couch in her pajamas under a blanket. She manages to get you under there with her sometimes. Once in a blue moon, she'll spread it over Spike and he'll actually let her.  
  
"Yeah. I'll call Olson and let him know to stand down. See you in a few."  
  
You keep things simple for Olson. "I took care of it," you say when you call. "Took the spell from him and got you another Orb for the shop."  
  
"What was he planning to do with it?"  
  
You pause for a moment. "He was trying to fix something he shouldn't have been. We had a talk. He's cool."  
  
It's Olson's turn to pause. You don't usually do the cryptic non-answer bullshit. In fact, you never do it. You always give him a blow-by-blow run down on the mechanics of things.  
  
"Interesting," he says slowly.  
  
"Oh, and I ran into the last Y'Fow demon, too. He's gooped on Clawson. They've got street cleaning in the morning."  
  
"Gooped? Do you feel better?" he asks easily.  
  
You make a non-committal grunty noise. "Night."  
  
When you get to the apartment, lights are already off and there's a Tara curled up in the center of the sofa. Purple material, strewn with white clouds, peeks out from the gaps of her gray fleece blanket. She's got her hair in a pony-tail, but it was carelessly put up and there are pieces of hair she missed, and bumps of uneven gathering in the front.  
  
The television screen is on the main menu of one of the less bloody DVDs you picked out.  
  
"Starting without me?" you ask, setting the blood on the table by the door and then emptying your pockets and belt clip.  
  
Spike strolls out of the kitchen, two plates of food in his hands. He passes one to Tara and sits the other on the coffee table.  
  
"Just getting ready for you," Tara replies.  
  
She seems pretty damn awake and you kind of feel bad, except she's got a little sparkle to her tonight. She gets that sometimes, the sparkle. Like life is really good and solid, and she's happy. You have no idea what triggers it, and tonight is no exception. Getting woken by Olson for possible trouble when she's got to be up early to break up with her girlfriend isn't really sparkle worthy. But there are a lot of things about Tara that elude (different than allude--they're homilies or homophones or something) you. Not about her personality, or her motivation. But the faint subtleties of how it all works together.  
  
In that way you know Spike better than you know Tara; there's little that's vague or subtle about Spike most of the time. In fact, there are things about Spike that you know better than Tara does. You and he have walked the dark paths, you and he have violence in you that you have to keep under control so that it doesn't overtake you.  
  
You grab the bag of blood and offer it to Spike as you're hanging up your coat, and he heads back into the kitchen with it.  
  
"Can you take this stuff over to the shop tomorrow when you're out?" you ask Tara, gesturing at the Orb and the spells.  
  
"Mm hmm."  
  
You plop next to her in your usual spot; it's always Tara in the center, you to her right, and Spike to her left. Olson and Josh are always relegated to the other furniture in the living room when they're here.  
  
You lean down to unlace your boots and peer up at Tara. "You want to watch something else?"  
  
"Nope, I'm good," she assures you. "I don't like this kind of stuff for movie nights. You know, because of the...fights." Josh and Olson both hate slasher flicks. "But late night, curled up in the dark? Perfect."  
  
"Right you are," Spike agrees as he comes back in and sits down. "Except for the curled up part."  
  
The coffee table shoots towards your face as you're pulling one of your boots off, and you jerk up. Spike unhooks his foot from the opposite table leg and sets his feet on the surface.  
  
Well, okay, your food is closer now. You pick it up and toe your other boot off, then slide your feet up and mimic Spike's position. Tara's feet join yours and Spike's a moment later, her blanket tossed across her legs.  
  
She's got the remote. She always has the remote because she says it's a necessity when watching anything with you and Spike. There've been a few fights, and one all-out wrestling match for it in the past. Tara won rights to it for all time from Spike when she kicked his legs out from under him, straddled his chest, took it from his hands, and refused to concede that it was unfair of her to do that to someone who couldn't actually fight back.  
  
Spike said he'd never been prouder of her, and you and he stood next to each other, wiping imaginary tears from your eyes and bemoaning how quickly they grow up.  
  
"Play the movie, luv," Spike tells Tara.  
  
She doesn't. "The kitchen light is still on."  
  
Spike snorts. "Turn it off, then. I've been the gofer enough for tonight," he says, gesturing at her food.  
  
Tara turns to him and since her hair is up, you can see her sweet smile and big eyes. Spike stares at her, unmoved, and her head starts to turn to you.  
  
"I killed the Y'Fow tonight, and I'm taking a well deserved break," you say before she can try any of her wiles.  
  
"Did you?" Spike says with interest, leaning forward to look at you. "Put up a lot of fight?"  
  
You shrug. "I didn't really give him a chance."  
  
Tara groans as she wrestles herself out from under her blanket and gets to her feet. "The Mayor said that our taxes are going to go up if they have to replace another street cleaning machine," she sighs on her way to the kitchen.  
  
"Like that much matters to us," Spike reminds her.  
  
The kitchen light clicks off and she's on her way back to the sofa. "Hey, I pay taxes," she insists.  
  
"Not as much as you should," you point out. "Olson shuffles most of your salary under the table."  
  
She shrugs and settles on the couch again. "I can't keep my scholarship if I make over a certain amount of money."  
  
"Which you do," Spike drawls. "Watcher pays you three times the going rate for a cashier."  
  
Tara nods and starts the movie. "He needs a hobby to spend his money on, I think. Maybe we can get him interested in something?"  
  
"He already has a hobby," you snicker. "Us."  
  
Doing something that requires you to sit still and be quiet? Probably not the best idea, because you can't seem to do either. Forty-five minutes into the movie, Tara has pretty much scooted as close to Spike as she can get in an effort to avoid your fidgeting and twitching.  
  
"What do you think they use for blood? Ketchup?" you ask when the slasher monster makes hamburger meat out of some poor dumb blond.  
  
"Probably some special...industry stuff," Tara says absently.  
  
A woman is running through some woods and you snort in disgust. "They *always* fall, don't they? What's up with that? How hard is it to just fucking run?"  
  
"Save your questions until the end of the presentation," Spike snaps.  
  
You watch the movie for another ten minutes and suddenly you frown when you hear a strange clacking noise. You're looking around for the source when Tara reaches over to clamp her hand on your thigh. You've been shaking your leg, and since your feet are on the coffee table, your fork has been jumping around on your empty plate.  
  
"I'll put those in the kitchen," you mutter, jumping up and dislodging Tara's hand. You take her plate and yours in and rinse them off. The dishwasher is on, so you poke your head around the partition. "Hey, can I interrupt this on 'rinse'?"  
  
Tara frowns. "Yeah, but it's almost done. Just, uh...leave them. In the sink."  
  
While you're in there, you might as well put away the ziti that Spike left out. There's barely a quarter of a pan left, so you haul out a plastic container and scoop the remainder into it. You toss it in the fridge, then set about cleaning out the pan so that the sauce doesn't set. Might as well do the plates while you're at it. And there's some sauce on the counter where the pain was, so you wipe that up. Then you straighten the stool by the counter at the partition and head back into the living room.  
  
Spike is glaring murderously at the screen.  
  
"What happened?" you ask curiously.  
  
Tara stops the movie. "Well, that's kind of what I was, uh, wondering." You frown and she raises her brows. "What happened tonight? You seem a little..." she waves her hand and shrugs.  
  
You stiffen and shake your head. "Nothing much. Let's finish the movie."  
  
"No," Tara says quietly.  
  
You grin at her. "It was an easy night, babe," you say easily. "No big."  
  
Tara leans across Spike to turn on a lamp. Spike has his head resting against the back of the sofa, eyes on the ceiling and a muscle jumping in his cheek. Very, very angry Spike.  
  
"Faith, why did Stanley Butters want the Orb?" Tara asks softly.  
  
The grin leaves your face. "Drop it, Ta," you say sharply. "Just put the damn movie back on."  
  
She pushes her way out of the tangle of her blankets and gets up. You take a step back and then stop. She stands in front of you, concern etched on her features.  
  
"Are you...are you okay?" she whispers. You swallow and her brows draw together. "Oh, Faith."  
  
You see her hand coming towards your face. Small, gentle Tara hand. It'll settle on your cheek and you will crumble--like Julie did when Stanley touched her back. You won't be able to remain upright in the face of Tara's softness because it'll seep into where you don't want it to go.  
  
She stumbles back when you slap her hand away before it reaches you, and you're not sure which of you is more surprised. You didn't--you didn't tell your hand to do that. You didn't. It just--it was instinct. She looks like you just killed her puppy, betrayed her to her core. And maybe you have, because you didn't hold your strength back all that much since it wasn't a deliberate move on your part.  
  
You step forward and flinch when Tara skitters away. Okay. Fine. It's...fine. Really. It was only a matter of time before you somehow clued Tara in to what a cunt you are. You've been waiting for this, haven't you, and now it's here.  
  
"Let me see it, pet," you hear Spike say and you blink.  
  
He's got Tara's hand in his, poking at it. It's swollen, and she hisses in a breath when Spike finds at a particularly sore spot. His jaw clenches even tighter, then releases.  
  
"Nothing too bad," he assures Tara. Her head is lowered, and he puts a finger on her chin and lifts it up. You see the tears in her eyes and it makes you retreat far inside. That was you. You did that to her. Your hands clench into fists and you exhale evenly.  
  
Tara takes a deep breath and stares up at Spike. "I thought--I just want--"  
  
Spike draws her to his chest and lowers his head to her ear. You can hear the sibilant whispers of sound but you can't make out words. Tara shakes her head in distress and pulls away from Spike. His brows sink down and he glares at her. "Tara!" he snaps.  
  
She jumps at his tone, and his face softens as he closes his eyes for a moment. "Tara," he says again, but differently.  
  
He's telling her something. Firmly. But also letting her know he understand where she's coming from. Almost automatically, her hand stretches up to touch his face, but she freezes mid-motion.  
  
You've done what going crazy, killing her lover, going crazy again, taking a hellish trip around the world, and confronting her dead lover wasn't able to do to Tara--you've made her hesitant about expressing herself, unsure of settling that no-strings-attached affection on another person.  
  
Spike takes her wrist and brings her hand to his face, and his eyes are dark as they look into hers. Tara swallows thickly, then nods.  
  
Spike looks furious suddenly, like the nod from Tara unleashed something he's been keeping under wraps for a long while. He steps away from her, and turns so that he's facing you.  
  
"Do you give damn about anyone but yourself?" Spike asks you, his voice cold and hard.  
  
And you're immediately on the defensive, not only because you know that you're in the wrong, but because that is the last line of crap you deserve. Sometimes you think everything you are is shaped by just how much you give a damn about the people in your life. "You son of a bitch," you breathe. "Where do you get off asking me that?"  
  
"Because you don't bloody show it," he replies immediately.  
  
Well, you *thought* you were furious, but apparently not because the anger kicks up a notch and now you know you're feeling real fury. "Fuck you," you snarl at him.  
  
You're about to start shaking or crying, or both, and you have to get out of there. You grab your boots and try to head for the door, but Spike is blocking your path. You shove him aside and realize that you somehow missed the fact that Tara moved from the couch to the door. She's standing in front of it, watching you closely.  
  
You won't force Tara out of your way. You just won't. And it hurts that she's not on your side. Hurts something low and deep in you. Even though you can't really expect anything else, given what you did. But...it's Tara. She's the one who sees past your shit, who knows what you really mean.  
  
"I get pushed aside, but Tara doesn't," Spike says from behind you. "Why?"  
  
"You're a vampire," you remind him, still staring at Tara's wide eyes. "I could hurt her. More."  
  
"So because he can take it, it's okay to dish it out?" Tara asks quietly, and you see something hard at the back of her eyes. Hard and Tara do not compute and you're suddenly scared.  
  
There is no right answer to this question, and you think it might be rhetorical anyway, so you lower your eyes and stay silent.  
  
"When we were in Berlin," Tara continues, "he tried to take my place with the crone. He knew it would be physical torture for him if he did it. He said he could take the damage." She pauses. "I wouldn't let him do it."  
  
You lift your eyes. Tara looks tired and sad. "I...I love you, Faith," she tells you, and your heart skips a beat. "You're like a sister and you're important to me. But so are the others. It hurts to watch you strike out at them because you don't want to actually say what's on your mind."  
  
"Yeah, well, it hurts when you and Spike get lost in your own little world of silent conversations," you snap. "Don't hear me complaining."  
  
"I don't believe you," Spike hisses. You turn to look at him. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. "Tara spent months unable to string two coherent words together, you stupid bint. Of course we got good at reading one another." He takes a step forward and points a finger at you. "Don't you dare lay a guilt trip at her feet for that. Not after all she's done for you."  
  
If you feel bad, you will damn well not show it to them. There's been too much shit slung at you tonight, from every direction imaginable. It's too fucking much. The curtain comes down and you plan on leaving it there for a long while. You shrug diffidently and spread your arms out. "Hey, no one asked her to do anything for me."  
  
Spike goes still. Utterly, preternaturally still. "You ungrateful little bitch," he whispers, and there is something like awe in his voice.  
  
"Spike, she doesn't mean it," Tara says from the door. "She just feels cornered."  
  
"That's where you and I are different, pet," Spike tells Tara. "I don't care why the hell she's dong it. You do everything you can for her, and you get shit all in return from her."  
  
"I don't do it for what I get in return," Tara says with a frown, and she sounds annoyed and practiced, like she's said this before to him.  
  
"Good for you," Spike snorts. "But I'm not going to keep my mouth shut when she starts lashing out at you, no matter what the reason behind it is. Of anyone in her life, you deserve it the least."  
  
"Are we almost done here?" you ask, vexing smile on your face. "Because as interesting as all of this is, it's not really holding my attention."  
  
"No, of course it's not," Spike drawls. "Nothing ever holds your attention when it has to do with your shortcomings."  
  
You suck in a breath. "My shortcomings?" you repeat slowly.  
  
"Yeah. You think I don't get it, Slayer?" he says, his voice smooth and deep. "It's overwhelming. Not the Hellmouth. No, you can deal with the nasties. You like dealing with them. But the people? That's almost too much for you. Constantly wondering if you're going to be too slow, or too late. Afraid that even if you're just in time it won't make a difference. Do you have nightmares? See their dead bodies, with their eyes all blank and accusing?"  
  
You're shaking. Shaking. And you can't stop even though you grit your teeth and try.  
  
"Worried and scared," he goes on. "All the time, right? But you won't let them know. You just keep it all inside and let out the bitch. Because that way you don't seem vulnerable, human. You're a Slayer, and you're not human. Not like others are. Can't--"  
  
"That. Is. Enough."  
  
Spike's words come to a skidding halt, and you both swivel your heads to gape at Tara, whose face is tight and jaw is clenched. She ground those four syllables out from between clenched teeth.  
  
He recovers before you do. "No, it's not," Spike insists firmly. "It's nowhere near enough, and you damn well know it, luv."  
  
"That's not tough love," she says, her voice raspy and thick. "It's just...cruel, and it's *more* than enough."  
  
She gives you a quick look, then steps away from the door. "Go," she says lowly, waving at the door. "I'm going to Spike's."  
  
"It's about damn time you moved out," Spike says with satisfaction.  
  
Your breath catches in your chest. Everything catches everywhere. Fuck the curtain. You can't be in this place without Tara. You can't. The breath won't leave your body, but you keep taking more in, and your vision is getting spotty. Your arms are flailing in front of you, and you know that she's too far away for you to grab a hold of but you still grab at the air.  
  
"I'm not moving out," Tara says impatiently. "Stop aggravating the situation."  
  
Your vision clears a little and you see that she's looking at Spike. Not at you. Not at the arms reaching out for her that drop suddenly to your sides. It's at that moment that you realize just how right Spike is. Because you expected Tara to come to you, to put herself in the path of your hands and let you grab at her instead of the air. You've gotten used to her seeing what you need and giving it to you, of giving you things that you don't even realize you need until after the fact.  
  
She gets her slippers from by the stairs, puts them on, and then steps outside, leaving you with Spike. You look at him, and you think you see compassion there in his eyes but you're not really sure. Nothing makes sense all of a sudden, and you don't trust yourself.  
  
"She'd step in front of a demon for you, you know," he tells you quietly. "Without a second thought, she'd do it. Even if it meant she would die. And it has fuck all to do with you being the Slayer, and everything to do with you being Faith." He tilts his head to the side. "I know you'd do the same for her, and it would be about Tara, too."  
  
His eyes darken and you see all of his cynicism. "But we've both been around the block, Faith. Big gestures are good and all, but nine times out of ten they're empty. That woman?" He points at the door Tara left through. "She's spent months clawing away at the Great Wall of Faith with her bare hands. Doesn't care that that she's only gotten through about an inch of stone. Doesn't care that she's got to fight you every step of the way. She doesn't even care that you probably hate her a little for doing it."  
  
He narrows his eyes on you and cracks his neck. "I'm done holding my tongue. Tara thinks you need time; that eventually you'll get it. Personally, I think you got it long ago and you're too damn scared to admit it. Get your shit together, Faith. If you don't...well, no one's going to walk away from you. But they'll shower you with the same treatment you give them."  
  
You've stayed still and quiet throughout his lecture. Things are so off balance that every word stabs at you, drawing the blood you know you deserve to bleed.  
  
He starts to leave then turns back, and his eyes are cold and empty in a way they weren't before. "You lift a hand to her again, I'll arrange a nasty surprise and then call Giles."  
  
"I won't," you manage to say through chattering teeth. Why you can finally squeak something out now, you have no idea. But you're glad you can, because it's very important that you make this clear. "Ever. I didn't mean..."  
  
He nods and this time he does leave.  
  


* * *

  
3:30 AM - 6:30 AM  
  
You stand in the living room, staring at your feet. Alone. Not just by yourself, but alone. It's a blackness that creeps up on you and steals your warmth. You remember the feeling, remember that you used to wear the skimpiest clothes and thumb your nose at the cold. Shed those clothes and expose yourself to the elements while pretending for ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour if you were lucky, that you were colder than the cold and it couldn't touch you.  
  
There's no excuse for it this time. There's no calling a redo on account of having a crappy life that never gave you the chance to learn about the important things. You learned about them during the brief time you were Buffy. You realized in Los Angeles that you need them, want them. You've experienced them during this second go round on the Hellmouth. They stole the cold away.  
  
What you're feeling now is the prelude to an iciness that will end you. To stay warm, you just have to let them in. It's so simple that it's giant and impossible. Spike is right; you got it a while ago, and you've been trying. But every time you attempt it, you find yourself not doing it and afterwards you're never really sure what the hell happened, why you didn't.  
  
This has been coming, you realize. A slow and steady arrival that began the day the Watchers sprang you from jail, faked your death, and sent you back here. It picked up speed when Tara moved in, and the pedal went to the floor when Spike and his soul came back.  
  
You're not sure anymore who you were trying to protect with the distancing-- them or you. Doesn't matter, because as Spike has made plain, they're sick of the distance, tired of trying to close it, and ready to give up.  
  
A part of you thinks that might be for the best. But the frantic part of you clawing its skin away from its arms doesn't agree. That part knows that the only reason you didn't bolt out of town a month in was because of *them*. They only reason you didn't shatter again--in a new way--was because of the way they held parts of you in place until they could stay on their own. They gave you safety and warmth, and they're ready to take it all back because you fight them every step of the way.  
  
Again you have the thought that there's been too much to deal with for one night. You need to think. For that, you need to move. Still trembling, you cram your feet into your boots, gather the necessities from the table by the door, and grab your coat.  
  
Something feels off in the courtyard, but it's not until you're at the stairs that you realize there's someone there. In the bushes. Your arms stretch out, making contact with flesh, and your fists take hold of clothing and give a good, hard yank. Your eyes widen when you see the voyeur. You let her go slowly, taking in the light brown, shoulder-length hair, gray eyes, and square features of Tracey.  
  
She's pretty enough, but you think Tara can do better. You'll probably always think Tara can do better than whoever she's dating. That's because Tara is better than most people. Kinder. Smarter. Nicer. Prettier. All things you used to have no stomach for.  
  
"What the hell are you doing?" you growl.  
  
Tracey's eyes widen and she stumbles back a step at the edge in your voice. You seem to be causing that reaction in people a lot recently.  
  
"Faith," she stammers. "I was just..."  
  
"Spying?" you supply. "Yeah. I'd noticed that. Why? And why were you following Tara?" Tracey shrugs and you inch closer, your face going tight. "Why?"  
  
"She's keeping things from me," she says harshly.  
  
Your eyebrows climb to your hairline. "Tara is keeping things from you," you repeat incredulously. "Yeah, right."  
  
The idea is crazy. Ridiculous.  
  
"She *said* she was gong to be at the library last week," Tracey says angrily. "And I brought her some tea. But she wasn't there. And she told me the next day that she got a lot done there."  
  
Aw, shit. Not so crazy or ridiculous. Fuck. Tara was helping you and the others ID and find the Y'Fow last week. But, still.  
  
"And so you decided not to, oh, say *ask* her about it?" you say sarcastically.  
  
Not that you'd *want* Tara to have to lie more, but really, what kind of person hides in bushes instead of asking?  
  
"Like she'd tell me the truth," Tracey scoffs. "All I'd get are more lies and then I'd find out the truth about her screwing someone else."  
  
You roll your eyes. The bitterness is evident, and you smell someone who's been crapped on more than once. "Guess women aren't that much different than men in some ways," you comment.  
  
Tracey sighs. "Not so much." She frowns. "I like her. A lot."  
  
You know that Tara likes Tracey as well, though not a lot. Recent events have pretty much lowered that to not at all, what with the planned break up in the morning.  
  
"I don't want to lose her," Tracey says quietly.  
  
"So you hold on tight," you realize, giving her a considering look. "Maybe a little too tight, huh?"  
  
She nods. "I guess I do." Her eyes flicker to the building, then back to you. "At first, I thought it was you."  
  
You *have* considered maybe translating your occasional muff diving into something more lifestyle-y. So that there maybe could be a you and Tara. You gave this a great deal of consideration actually and eventually realized it was just not going to happen. You like the cock. You could not go without the cock. And since Tara does not have a cock, there ended the consideration.  
  
You blink at Tracey. "So not the case," you mutter.  
  
"I said at first," she tells you. "But then I saw--I saw her go to Spike's just now. In her pajamas. And then he followed her."  
  
"It's not *anyone*, much less me or Spike," you say with frustration. "Tara doesn't...she's not even like that." You smile cynically. "And that comes from someone who knows about people being like that."  
  
Tracey stares at you, then her face collapses. "She going to leave me, isn't she?" she asks miserably.  
  
You shrug awkwardly. This isn't really a conversation you want to have, and you're starting to feel bad for the woman. "Look. Spying and stalking?" You shake your head. "Those are issues. Maybe you should work on that. Because it's not exactly, you know, healthy and shit. Actually, it's fucking creepy. And disturbing."  
  
"I know...I just..."  
  
You know. You really do. "Go home," you suggest.  
  
She nods and starts to turn. Then she glances at you. "I know you're going to tell her." You don't deny that. "But let her know I'm sorry."  
  
You wait a couple of minutes, then finally climb the stairs out of the courtyard to the sidewalk. It's funny, in a way that's not even a little funny. You and Tracey. Both so afraid of losing Tara that you've both done something that will pretty much guarantee you'll lose her. Only in your case, it's the others as well.  
  
You wander town for hours and there's no answer that comes to you that you didn't already know and fail at. You're kind of...deflated. Like a balloon. You zipped around the room, all the air going out of you, and now you've fallen to the floor, tired and empty. Make that exhausted. Goddamn, there should be a limit to how much a person has to deal with in one night. This shit is just too fucking much. Xander and Stanley Butters and the shit with Tara and then the Tracey thing.  
  
You can't even begin to process it all. You're probably supposed to learn something significant from it all, but--fuck. It's a lot. Maybe someone better or smarter could figure it out, but you're just on overload. And you feel old and incompetent. About the only worse way things could go would be if Giles were to call. You pause, waiting for your cell to ring, but it stays mercifully silent.  
  
"Small favors," you mutter, and start walking again.  
  
You manage to do a sweep of the remaining cemeteries on your walk, not finding much of anything. You probably scared all the roaches into the woodwork with your displays at Tranquility Falls and Willies'. That's a good thing, because you're not exactly at your most attentive.  
  
Your mind is just going in circle after circle. You know that things aren't lost, not for good. Tara will forgive you, Spike will go back to his usual manner of calling you on the carpet, and things will return relatively close to normal. But it's only a reprieve, and you know it. If you can't figure this out, then you're gong to fuck things up permanently. Tara gives more than she should--it's her way. But everyone has a limit, and soon you're going to find out what hers is.  
  
Spike will walk away with her. If it comes down to you or Tara, he'll pick Tara every and any time. Just like you would if it ever came down to Tara or Spike. Tara's worthy. You and Spike aren't and you both know it.  
  
You figure you might as well head home. Sun'll be up soon and sunrise is your bed time. You wonder what kind of fucked up dreams this night is going to give you.  
  


* * *

  
6:30 AM - 7:30 AM  
  
When you get back home about an hour before dawn, you find the apartment not as empty as it was when you left. Spike's sitting on the couch. Smoking. That means Tara is still at his place, because there's a strict no smoking policy in the apartment. He'll probably catch all sorts of hell when she comes back; like any non smoker, Tara's got a nose for the scent.  
  
"Get a lot of action?" he asks blandly while you strip your coat off for what feels like the millionth time that night.  
  
It's something of a peace offering, considering how he has no problem ignoring you when he wants to. You shrug. "Not really. Wasn't looking. Just walking."  
  
He nods and drops his cigarette in a soda can on the coffee table, jiggling it around so that the liquid inside snuffs out the cig. "Guess I could have been easier on you earlier," he concedes.  
  
That makes you smile. "Tara read you the riot act, didn't she?" you say knowingly.  
  
He laughs, more than a little indulgently, but doesn't answer.  
  
You collapse onto the loveseat, positioned so that you can see him. "Kind of funny, isn't it?" you muse.  
  
He arches a brow. "What's that?"  
  
"Come on, we're badasses," you remind him, grinning. He returns it, some kind of predator gleam sliding into his eyes. "But we just shrink under a glare from Tara. It's funny."  
  
"Are you in love with her?" he asks suddenly.  
  
He's watching you like he expects you to be shocked, but you just smile at him. "Be a lot easier if I was, wouldn't it?"  
  
"Nah," he replies with a shrug. "More complicated is more like it. You're even worse at relationships than you are at friendships--and that's saying a bloody lot."  
  
It's your turn to spring a sudden question on him. You know it's not going to be a welcome question, but you're beyond desperate at the moment. "How did B do it?"  
  
He is about as surprised by your question as you were by his. "What does that matter, eh?" he asks curiously, his eyes narrowed. "Are you Buffy?"  
  
"I was, once," you murmur quietly.  
  
"I remember," he says, his voice just dripping innuendo to the point that you can actually *hear* his smirk before you shift your eyes and see it.  
  
"Can we stay on topic here?" you demand.  
  
"Right. Buffy. Who you are *not*."  
  
You flinch and prepare to stand, but Spike has leaned over and grabbed hold of your knee. You're still feeling unlike yourself because of your previous altercation with him, so you stop trying to move.  
  
"Wanna try hearing me out before you get all huffy about imagined insults?" he asks coolly.  
  
"Yeah, sure."  
  
"Buffy was a hell of a Slayer," he begins, and you dig your nails into your palms as you brace yourself for the inevitable comparison. "And I should know. I've fought a few. Killed a couple. Know what I learned? All of them were different. Didn't make any of them less of a Slayer."  
  
He pulls out his cigarettes and lights one, then jiggles the pack so that a couple stick out. You take one when he offers the pack, and lean forward so that he can light it. You're less tense now, because so far the comparison hasn't come, and you're starting to think it won't. Which is maybe the point he's trying to make.  
  
"Your problem is that things got screwed," he says bluntly. "You and Buffy shouldn't have been around at the same time. But you were, and she was a good Slayer with a couple of years on her. So you figured that to be a good Slayer, you had to be like Buffy. Don't suppose your little stint in her body helped matters."  
  
Another wince, and you decide that you will *never* not have some kind of physical reaction to any reminders of that incident. Just as well, since it was probably one of the creepier things you did.  
  
"No, it didn't," you admit, exhaling some smoke and tangling a hand in your hair. "She had it all, Spike. Everything I never did. Know what the rub was?"  
  
"If you hadn't fucked things up royally, you could have had it, too," he answers simply. "But that's not true. What was right for her, what worked for her? Not necessarily what applied to you. And let's not forget that even if you had meshed into that group, they were her group first and last. Nothing to do with you, that. Just how people are."  
  
"But fucking look at me now!" you exclaim. "Got the friends and the fucking movie night. Am I supposed to just not have them? Because she had them?"  
  
He rolls his eyes and points at you with his cigarette. "Will you stop being so damned defensive and *listen*?" He glares at you. "Don't make me force you, because I will; chip or no chip. Got strict orders from Tara."  
  
Despite yourself, you snicker at that, then spring another question on him. It's kind of changing the subject, but you're curious about it. "Are *you* in love with her?"  
  
This time he is surprised, and he chokes on some smoke that he was in the middle of inhaling. "What?" he practically shouts. "She's gay, and I'm not that much of a fool." You really can't help thinking that being in love with Buffy was more than a little foolish, but he stops you before you can say that. "Not a word. Not one bloody word."  
  
You hold your hands up in mock-surrender. "Fine, all right. Not a word."  
  
"So the point I was trying to make is this," Spike continues, still watching you warily, as if he expects you to bring up the Buffy thing despite his warning. "The group you've got around you? They just kind of happened. Wasn't you trying to *be* Buffy, and no one thinks otherwise. But they bring complications, and how Buffy dealt with them doesn't matter."  
  
"That's not even a little helpful," you scoff, leaning forward to cram your cigarette into the soda can. "I'm looking for some advice here."  
  
He sighs tiredly and rubs a hand across his face. "Said it earlier, and I'll say it again. You already figured it out. Just a matter of you acting on it." He shakes his head and turns those intense eyes on you again. "What I'm trying to get through that head of yours is that you--Faith--are a damn good Slayer."  
  
And that stops you. Stops you and starts you all at once. Because--Spike? Heavily biased for Buffy, obviously. You've always thought that he's the one who most often finds you lacking in comparison to her. There you go again with comparison, don't you? He's got a point, and you recognize it logically. Two different people are still two different people, even if both are Slayers. You think it'll take you a while to accept this the way it needs to be accepted, but for now...  
  
For now, the fact is that this Buffy acolyte--who has never been one to say things just to make someone feel good--has just said he thinks you're a damn good Slayer. It's something you can latch on to. Accept. It's simple and straightforward.  
  
"Glad something's permeated that thick skull of yours," he snorts. You realize you're staring at him like he's just told you some secret to the universe. Maybe he has. A secret to the universe that is Faith. You keep staring, and his face softens into less pronounced angles. "Whatever doubts you've got, you remember that, will you?"  
  
You nod and look away, because it's a whole lot of soft, squishy moments all rolled into one and you've never been good at those. "Thanks," you say awkwardly.  
  
"Right. Now, on to the next subject," he says breezily. Next subject? You're not really sure you can take more sharing tonight, and what the hell else is there to discuss? "Tara."  
  
"Tara?" you repeat in confusion. "She's a subject?"  
  
His lips twitch. "A noun, specifically."  
  
"Fucking blow me," you mutter irritably. "You know what I meant. And I feel shitty enough already, so do we need to have another touchy-feely conversation about it?"  
  
"Yeah, we do," he says reluctantly. "Not one I'm looking forward to, either, just so you know. You're not the only one who dislikes the sharing time. Always been my favorite thing about you lot--the lack of it."  
  
Well, that bodes well for wrangling out of it. "So how about we do the short version?" you propose, giving him a grin. "I'm a bitch, and if I am a bitch to Tara again you'll find a way around the chip. We cool?"  
  
You watch his face go a little blank. "No, we're not cool," he says steadily, but something is glittering in his eyes. The grin slips off your lips and you hunch down a little. "Let's try something new for this conversation. How about I ask questions, and you answer them without your usual 'go take a piss' attitude?"  
  
That has you glaring at him, but he glares right back at you and so you sigh and wave a hand. "Okay, okay. What do you want to know about the subject of Tara, who is a noun specifically?"  
  
He frowns, like he's wondering if he should call you on the snotty addition to that statement, but you guess he decides it's as good as he's going to get, because he nods.  
  
"Since I came back, you've been out of sorts," he begins. "Yes or no?"  
  
You shift a little uncomfortably as you realize he is about to ask you a whole lot of questions that you really don't want to answer. "Yes," you say lowly.  
  
Shifting around on the loveseat, you settle sideways, your back against the arm and your legs stretched out. It puts your back mostly to him, and if you don't focus on your peripheral vision, you can't see him. Maybe it'll be easier to answer if you don't have to look at him? Maybe he'll let you?  
  
"Very good. Gold star for you," he says, doing a little golf clap. The clapping doesn't even irritate you because he's actually going to let you stay the way you are and not have to look at him. "Why have you been out of sorts?"  
  
"Never thought about it."  
  
"Funny, that would actually work on Tara," Spike comments. "But not on me."  
  
You sometimes forget just how damn good this vampire is at just *knowing* people. "She was mine," you say sullenly, not caring how it sounds. "I mean, Josh and Olson were here and all, but it was me and Ta at the apartment. We got to know each other, right? Know things they didn't."  
  
You shrug like the child your words imply you are, and bend one knee, looping your wrist over it. Staring at your wrist, you try to find words. You've learned a lot of them, but stringing them together into something...cohesive, is another matter all together. And not something you've had much practice at.  
  
"Did Tara tell you about when Khentimentiu came here?" you ask haltingly. "To send her to you after you got the soul?" He makes a noise that, loosely translated, means no. "Yeah, well, so Khentimentiu didn't want to tell me what was going on, and I told him that you're one of ours. That we take care of our own."  
  
You fall silent and remember the scene that night, when you first became aware of that thing between Tara and Spike that you can't touch.  
  
"What happened then?" Spike asks.  
  
"He fucking tripped out on me," you tell him. "Tara had to step in between us to get us to cool it. Then he turns around and says the reason he's telling Tara is because you're hers. And he had *no* problem with that," you continue, your voice harsh and angry. "No freaking out, no violence. Just, 'hey, Spike's yours'. Know why?"  
  
"Knowing Khentimentiu?" Spike says slowly. "Could've been any number of reasons." You crane your head back and stare pointedly at him, and he sighs. "Right, was because she loves me."  
  
Sinking back, you close your eyes.  
  
"Yeah, that's what he said," you reply. "Anyway, I know Tara, and I knew she was going to get you back here; that's just how she is. I started thinking about before you left, when she was here for the Cerno, and how you two just--fuck, it was like you were inside each other's *heads*, man."  
  
"We were," you hear him say, and you whip your head around to gape at him. "That night I took her to Wildwind, she...did something." He narrows his eyes and stares off at something or other in the distance. "Pummeled me with emotions, with memories, and gave me a dose of what was going on in her scrambled head."  
  
"No shit?" you whisper, and he nods. "Damn."  
  
"Pretty much," he concedes. "And her knowing me, that's just how Tara is. Watches, doesn't she? Soaks things up like a greedy little sponge. Lots of activity behind her quiet exterior." He smiles softly and shakes his head. "Go on, then. Got to thinking about me and Tara during the Cerno...?"  
  
This looking at him thing doesn't seem too bad, so you scoot around and pick up your explanation. "Yeah. And I thought about you and me, you know while you were helping us. And I thought about me and Tara since you left. No matter how I looked at it, I--" You make a frustrated noise because you're not sure how to say it.  
  
"You got the short end of the stick," he finishes for you, his tone not unkind. "Felt like Tara was more mine than yours, pretty much were told that I was more hers than yours. So who was yours, right?"  
  
"Well, yeah, I guess," you admit irritably.  
  
He opens his mouth, seems to think better of what he's going to say, then seems to change his mind altogether. "You're an idiot."  
  
You glare at him. "See, this is why I don't do sharing."  
  
"Well, you are," he insists. "I can see you feeling that way at the time. But you still feel that way, don't you?"  
  
"Shouldn't I?" you come out and ask him. "Because from where I stand? Nothing's changed. You two still do that creepy thing, where you look at each other and have entire fucking conversations."  
  
"That's not going to change, and you're overlooking something vital."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"You have those kind of conversations with me, and with Tara, too."  
  
You frown. "Yeah, no I don't."  
  
He quirks a brow. "You and I had several about Tracey last night."  
  
Eager to prove him wrong, you replay the events of the prior evening before the first round of patrols. "Well, goddamn," you say, sounding just as shocked as you feel.  
  
"Listen up, Faith, and pay attention. Tara? She loves you something fierce. Wants everything for you. Does her best to make sure you get it, too."  
  
"I'm *not* an idiot," you say again. "I know that."  
  
There's a long, long silence and you don't know what it means. When he speaks, his voice is almost a whisper. "Do you, now?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Are you in love with me?"  
  
"Sharing time's over," you announce suddenly, jumping to your feet. Spike is there before you can take a step. He stares down at you with that intense stare.  
  
"Are you in love with me?" he asks again, and you can't read anything on his face. It's blank. So are his eyes. Nothing there to give you a hint about what he hopes or thinks the answer is.  
  
You don't want to think about that question, but you suddenly have to. And the answer comes quickly, simply, and with it comes clarity on pretty much everything else about the three of you. Pretty damn surprising.  
  
"No."  
  
He blinks. "No."  
  
You shake you head. "No." You laugh a little. "That would probably make a whole lot more sense. Explain everything neatly."  
  
He echoes the shaking of your head. "You think that would be 'neat'?" he wants to know.  
  
"Well, yeah. Because it's, like, the expected thing. Love fucking things up. Messing with friendships. Totally trashing a group. But that's not what's going on."  
  
Spike thinks you're talking out of your ass, as is clearly demonstrated by the rolling of his eyes. And, really, you can't blame him for thinking that. For most of this conversation you've been struggling for words, and even you find it strange that you've apparently known the deal about what's at the center of it all for a while.  
  
You take your perch on the loveseat again.  
  
"Three friends," you say confidently, letting the words end on an up note to signal there's more coming. There's a theory, and a story and a truth coming.  
  
Spike tilts his head to the side, somewhat interested, and then sits on the couch again. He waves his hand to continue, and you follow it up by gesturing for a cig. He's all about not killing you with the Big C, and the warning glare he gives you along with the cigarette means you're cut off for the week. That's cool.  
  
"Three friends," you say again. "None of who are in love with any of the others." Okay, that sounds all wrong, and you decide that you should leave the fancy narrating to someone else. "Romantic love not entering into it," you clarify. "Sex, either."  
  
"Right," he drawls, snorting a little.  
  
"Man, you need to get over yourself." He blinks and you grin. "Yeah, Spike, that's right. I'm not interested in getting bouncy with you. Haven't been since...well, since that time I was interested." And, hey, an improvement. No masochistic mention of switching you-know-whats with you-know-who. Go you.  
  
"It's nothing to do with me. You're a goddamned cat in heat. Nothing wrong with that," he hastens to add.  
  
You don't clue him in on your recent revelation about your sex life. It's going to stay with you, because you came to it on your own and it's yours.  
  
"Seriously, Spike. It hasn't been an issue since I came back."  
  
He studies you for a long moment, surprise filling his face. Maybe a little disappointment, too. Because, hey, who the hell doesn't want to be the object of someone else's lust? It's flattering.  
  
"So these three should have it easy, right?" you go on. "No sexual tension. No love triangles. Should be smooth friendly sailing. But it's not. And you know why it's not?"  
  
Spike holds up his hands, like he's letting you make the point. But you think that he doesn't know what the point is.  
  
"Because they're not friends."  
  
Yeah, he really didn't know where you were going with this. His mouth kind of drops open a little before he catches himself. Then he nods.  
  
"And they're not family," you add.  
  
That's really caught him off guard and piqued his interest for the first time tonight. "So then what are these three people?"  
  
"They're three people. And each of them is the others'." He frowns at you and you take a frustrated breath. "Okay. You and me, we're Tara's." He nods. "But I'm also yours, and you're also mine. And Tara is mine and yours. It's not just a group of friends. It's three people who've laid some kind of claim on each other. We haven't done that with Josh and Olson-- they're our friends, our family."  
  
Spike is quiet for a while. "Say you're right," he proposes eventually. "Why do you think that makes it more complicated?"  
  
"Because of me," you say softly. "I want you and her to be mine, and that's it. No other having of any kind. I don't want to...I don't know. Get left. Out or behind."  
  
Thankfully, he doesn't make a big deal of what you've just confessed to him. If he did, you would probably have run screaming for the hills. Instead he nods sedately.  
  
"Always tough. Wondering if you're going to be figured as unnecessary. You and Tara, you're both women. Both human. Can't see as either of you have much need for a souled and chipped vamp. And me and you, we've got insight into each other that Tara can't even begin to get near. Gotta make her wonder if she's got anything to offer."  
  
And, yes, you can be incredibly self-involved, but it's still a surprise that you never actually thought about that aspect before. It's true, isn't it? There's reason for each of you to feel like you'll get left. Out or behind. But...when you think about Tara or Spike getting left out or behind, it doesn't work. You and Spike were alone together for months before Tara came. It was cool, but you didn't have the kind of things Tara offers. And when it was you and Tara, you didn't have any of the things that Spike offers.  
  
So maybe it's the *three* of you. Maybe the Spike and Tara deal misses out on something if you're not involved in the equation. Maybe it's not two and one, but all three of you. Huh.  
  
Sun's up, now, and Spike isn't going anywhere. He pulls out his cigarettes again, then sighs and puts them away. You fall into a silence that's comfortable, and that's a very weird thing. You and Spike don't usually do silence, and you never do it together.  
  
"She's too good for the likes of us, you know," he says roughly a while later.  
  
"Fuck yeah," you agree. "I don't plan on telling her that anytime soon, though. Do you?"  
  
He smirks and shakes his head, eyes meeting yours. "She's not mad at you. About her hand."  
  
You go a little still. "I didn't even mean to do that," you mumble.  
  
"She knows. Says she knew better than to try it then; something about some look or other in your eyes that she ignored."  
  
The silence falls again, and you ponder how strange this all is. Nothing's been fixed. Nothing's perfect. Nothing's even the same or better than when you woke up. Even still, there's been some shit settled. It's probably a start. Definitely a start. The rest is up to you, and even though you doubt that you'll be able to do what it is you haven't been able to do, you still feel kind of good about things.  
  
There's something like an hour that passes, and you're about to fall asleep when there's a noise from Spike. When you look over, your heart stops for a moment, and then you jump to your feet.  
  
His back is hunched up unnaturally, his head arched back, and then his body is flailing to the side. He crashes through the glass top of the coffee table. You stare down at him in shock, having no idea what to do. He's having a seizure or something. One of his hands is grabbing at his head, the other is pounding into the floor, and there's a garbled scream coming from his mouth.  
  
"Fucking hell," you choke out, then drop to your knees and drag him off the shattered remnants of the coffee table. You manage to haul him up on the sofa, but it's not easy.  
  
He's convulsing, shouting through clenched teeth, and his eyes are squeezed shut in agony. It's gotta be the chip, with the way he's clawing at his head. But you've seen it go off, and it's never this bad. And he didn't even do something to set it off. He was just fucking sitting there. You hold him down, keep him from falling off the sofa again, and the sounds of his choked screams are grating at your skin.  
  
"Shit, shit, shit, shit. What the fuck is going on?" you growl as you struggle to hold him down. Damn bastard is strong, and you finally have to sit on him and hold onto the back of the couch to keep him on it.  
  
You time it. Because Olson has taught you, among other things, that the details are important. You time it. And it takes five minutes. Five fucking minutes. Longest five minutes of your life. Then he collapses under you. Shaking like you were earlier. Cradling his head like there's been something rammed through it.  
  
You slide off of him slowly, watching him carefully. You time it again. And it takes ten fucking minutes. Ten minutes before he can open his eyes and even attempt to speak.  
  
"Bloody hell," he says, and his voice is so faint that you almost didn't hear it.  
  
He's not flailing about any more, and you leave him on the sofa and go for the phone.  
  
"Damn it, don't!" Spike tells you, and you think he wanted his voice to be deep and threatening, but it's just soft and weak.  
  
You stop anyway and look at him. "Give me one goddamn reason why I shouldn't?" you ask tightly.  
  
He curls his lips at you. "You already know *all* the bloody reasons."  
  
Yeah, that's true. You do know. He wants to protect Tara. "Look, no matter how hard you try? You can't keep her from ever getting upset about something, okay? It's going to happen. Especially with the shit we do every day."  
  
Also, you're a little upset yourself, and Tara's a damn good calming influence. Always a good thing for you to have on hand when you're in a situation that's got you all up in arms, but there's nothing to actually *fight*.  
  
Spike's eyes close. "Damn stubborn females," he mutters. "At least clean up the glass."  
  
It's stupid, cleaning up the glass, but you do it anyway. Tara only had her slippers on when she left, and the glass could go right through it. And she gets all nesty when things are bad. No doubt the glass would be her first task once she stopped crying.  
  
You shove the coffee table frame against a wall and then pick up the house phone. Tara's cell is on the dining table, so you hit the speed dial for Spike's apartment. Tara doesn't sound like you woke her up.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
Spike's eyes are open again, and he's staring at you. Right. "Hey, you need to come home," you say as calmly as you can. "Right now."  
  
She's silent for a moment, then asks, "What's...did something happen?"  
  
You look back at Spike. He's trying to sit up, but he's not having much success. "Yeah," you answer, and your voice is shaky. "It's Spike. He...just come. Please."  
  
There's no answer because she's already hung up.  
  


* * *

  
7:30 AM - 11:30 AM  
  
Tara is beside herself when she gets to the apartment. As soon as he sees her, Spike gathers his strength and manages to sit up, an easy grin on his lips. Tara looks from that grin to the coffee table, to you, and you quickly school your features into something relaxed.  
  
She starts crying immediately. Damn. She knows both of you too well. But Tara really is the matriarch, and she wipes the tears away impatiently and sits next to Spike on the sofa.  
  
"What happened?" she asks softly, taking one of his hands in her own.  
  
"Think the chip has gone haywire," he admits, not giving anything away that would hint at the screaming convulsions he had not too long ago. "Firing when it shouldn't be."  
  
You narrow your eyes on him. "How long has it been happening?" you demand to know, because you suddenly realize he's nowhere near surprised about his little fit.  
  
He looks at you, and there's something very, very annoyed in his gaze. Whatever. "Been happening off and on," he says, neatly sidestepping the question.  
  
But Tara's on the clue wagon now, and her eyes go really wide. "Spike?" she says uncertainly.  
  
He rubs a hand over his face. "About three weeks now."  
  
You and Tara exchange a glance that is equal parts scared and furious, and you know that she's also thinking about the fact that Spike's been around less than he normally is. So, it wasn't because of you, like you originally thought. It was because he didn't want any of you to see him convulse.  
  
"Three fucking weeks?" you shout incredulously. "And you didn't think we should maybe *know* about it?"  
  
"Faith--" Tara starts, but you ignore her.  
  
Because right now you're picturing Spike falling to the ground and screaming, and some baddie or other taking advantage of the opportunity and staking him. Or the damn chip liquefying the parts of his brain that the bleach hasn't already turned to mush.  
  
You can't be in this place without Spike, either, for entirely different reasons than with Tara. And in less than twenty-four hours, you've been faced with the possibility of losing both of them.  
  
"You are not allowed to be in mortal danger and not tell us," you say to him, but your voice is thick and raspy, and you have to swallow twice before you can say more. "You're not allowed to take away our chance to stop it from happening."  
  
Your words are met with matching expressions of surprise. And it's pivotal, isn't it? If they make a big deal out of your words--the emotion behind them--you might just back off. But they don't. Spike just leans back on the sofa in pain, and Tara just holds out her hand to you. They'll accept your words and actions for what they are. They won't make you uncomfortable and uncertain. Why the hell did you think otherwise? You can't remember now.  
  
It's harder than you thought it would be, taking those few steps and putting your hand in Tara's, but you do it, and you feel way prouder of yourself than you probably should.  
  
Tara tugs you down so that you're sitting next to her. "What--what can we do?" she asks. "I mean, this isn't something we can take care of magically. And I don't think the local surgeon can fix it."  
  
"Don't know, pet," Spike murmurs tiredly, and you shrug helplessly.  
  
Helplessness isn't something you like feeling. It usually sends you running off somewhere to either escape the feeling or find a way to do something. But escape isn't an option anymore, and you wouldn't even know how to do something about this. So you sit there, your hand in Tara's, and her other hand in Spike's.  
  
A little while later, Spike dips to the side, fast asleep. Tara shifts slightly and lets go of his hand so that she can brush her fingers along the side of his face. Her back is partially to you, and instead of taking it as a rejection, you also shift.  
  
Tara leans against you, drawing your arm around the front of her waist by way of tugging on your joined hands. Spike looks like he's in pain, even sleeping, and you wonder how much of an effort it's been taking him to pretend that none of this was happening. You and Tara didn't have a clue, and you don't think Josh and Olson do, either.  
  
Speaking of which, you should probably call them. Dawn and Giles, too. She'll probably ditch school and come running to Sunnydale to help with the research. It's only fifty-fifty that Giles'll come to town to help. Yeah, you'll call them. But...not right now. No, right now is for the three of you to come to terms with it. Once you've all done then, then the others can come into the picture.  
  
And it suddenly clicks. The people thing. It *clicks* loud and clear for you. You're actually doing something as you sit here doing nothing, and it's something important, something vital. You're giving and you're taking. Not just strength, but...comfort, too. The comfort of a presence, like when Tara used to have the nightmares and you stayed where she could see you. Like when Tara puts herself in the path of your flailing arms. Like when Stanley Butters talked to Gina.  
  
It's so easy and you can't remember why you thought it would be hard. This is what it's about.  
  
Something splashes on your hand. Tara's crying. All quiet like. You've never given much comfort, and when you have you've generally done it wrong. But Tara's been raining it down on you for months, day after day, one flinch after another as she reached out to you.  
  
You pull her tighter against you and rest your cheek on her head. "It's going to be okay, Ta," you whisper.  
  
"No it's not," she says, her voice husky with tears and anger. "That thing is kill--"  
  
"Shh," you breathe, and you wrap your other arm around her waist, then reach up with it and take hold of her shoulder. It's like a hold more than a hug, but it's the best you can do in this position.  
  
You have no idea if it's going to be all right, but the odds are against it. You rock her a little bit as you both stare down at Spike and you tell her again, "It'll be okay."  
  
Tara falls asleep a little while later, her weight falling on you more and more. You lean back to get more comfortable and stifle a yawn, telling yourself that you'll stay awake. But it's pretty comfy, warm Tara draped over you, the soft sofa behind you, and you're fucking exhausted, so you actually do fall asleep.  
  


* * *

  
11:30 AM - 5:29 PM  
  
You wake up when Tara shifts, and when you open your eyes she's sitting up. "Hey," you rasp, and she turns to smile at you. It's a little bit sad, a little bit grateful, and a whole lot frightened.  
  
"Hey," she whispers back. "I guess he really needs the sleep."  
  
You nod. "He'll need the good stuff," you say abruptly. "I'll head over to Willie's and get some more later."  
  
"Thanks," she says sincerely.  
  
"I'm sorry. About before. With your hand. I didn't mean..." She doesn't cut in while you're trying to form the words, and you think she was probably more upset about it then she let on to Spike, because she generally tries to make things easier for you when you're struggling. "It wasn't on purpose, and I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Ever. I swear."  
  
Tara studies you for a long moment, her gaze almost as intense as Spike's, and then she lets out a deep breath and nods. "Apology accepted."  
  
Both of you sit properly on the couch, Tara's hand on Spike's chest. This time, you're the one to reach for Tara's hand, and she gives it as easily as she offered it, squeezing lightly in a reassurance. There's a long bit of silence before you say, "The Petries are moving out this weekend."  
  
Tara looks at you. "Yeah?"  
  
"They've got that three-bedroom place. Lots of closet space. A real dining room."  
  
She frowns prettily. "Is that the apartment Olson made us paint in November?"  
  
You nod and your eyes go to Spike. "He doesn't like living alone."  
  
She squeezes your hand again. "And we don't like living without him."  
  
"Speak for yourself," you snort. "Not a prize to live with. But since he's here all the damn time anyway...we just have to remember not to let him do any laundry."  
  
"Like you're any better," Spike says suddenly, his eyes opening.  
  
There's some bickering and teasing. Even a half-hearted growl from Spike. Then there are plans for the Pietries' apartment. New furniture is a necessity, Spike wants to paint his room some funky assed color, and you don't want any frills. Tara nods, but even she knows that you and Spike will let her paint everything pink and cover every surface with frilly doilies if she wants to.  
  
After the apartment is decorated and stocked, the three of you fall silent. You don't think you're the only one who feels good, all the possible crap a little more--no, a lot more--manageable.  
  
So it's time for the calls. Josh and Olson show up and you're in charge of mocking Josh for the moment of surprised tears he has when he hears the news. In the face the steadiness that is you, Tara and Spike, Josh and Olson have no choice but to calm down and actually think about solutions to the problem.  
  
The three of you dominate the couch as usual, and Spike actually drags his sorry but to his side of the couch after you almost sit on him twice. Habits are habits, and he has his own side, damn it.  
  
Spike starts whining piteously (that wasn't a word of the day--you stumbled across that in the dictionary one day when you had to look up perspicuous after Olson used it during a research session) and Tara, with a knowing look in her eye, goes about waiting on him hand and foot.  
  
Everyone agrees to hold of calling Dawn or Giles until they've got some ideas to offer. You know that part of the delay is because no one's quite distanced enough yet to break the news to Dawn.  
  
Things are going by quickly, and you feel like you're only getting the surface of it all, but that's okay. That's how you're all staying steady and calm. And when you can't anymore, you'll pick up the slack for each other. And maybe you *do* know what Tara means by family, and maybe it's worth the fear and the stress.  
  
Tara's giggling because Spike is threatening to tickle her, and if he's in pain then he's not really paying attention to it. Tara scrunches up her nose in delight when you suddenly kiss her cheek, and Spike leers suggestively and invites you to kiss him, too, his pelvic thrust making it clear where exactly he wants that kiss. Josh rushes forward to give the kiss, and Olson slams his hand on the table and yells at all of you, which just makes the rest of you laugh.  
  
Yeah, it's definitely worth it.  
  


* * *

  
5:30 PM  
  
This isn't yours. None of it is yours, and yet here you are. Living it, holding it, protecting it, fighting it, guarding it.  
  
You feel a little more capable now. Maybe you don't have all the answers, and maybe you'll make a fucking lot of mistakes along the way, but you have the feeling that everyone will be pretty understanding, and they'll help you figure it out as you go.  
  
It wasn't supposed to be your destiny at all, but now it is. Right or wrong, good or fucked up. It's yours and no one else's. It doesn't matter how unfair it is.  
  
She *should* be alive. No matter what. But she isn't, and there's nothing anyone can do about that. No matter how many people might wish otherwise-- and that includes you--this is how things are.  
  
It might hurt, and it might be hard, and it might be the last thing anyone wanted, but what it comes down to is this:  
  
Things aren't wrong. Not really. They're just not how anyone figured they would be.  
  


* * *

  
Note: The next story in the series is "A Doe at Evening" and it's the Dawn story. It will take place during Elysium, The Red Macula, and also pick up at the end of this. So, there you go. All the Dawn you could ever want. 


End file.
